Game of Thrones: Season 8 Rewritten
by Black Spruce
Summary: Millions of fans including myself were incredibly disappointed in the final season of Game of Thrones. Many actors were disappointed as well, and we'd all been waiting for a great conclusion to one of the best shows ever made. Unfortunately we'll never get one officially. But I've decided to take it into my own hands, and after rewatching the series, I shall give it a proper ending
1. Chapter 1

Little Henry slept soundly in his bed, the sound of the strong winds and the snow having lulled the boy of nine into slumber under his cozy furs. A blizzard had overtaken the little village on the hill, the snow building up around the homes and sliding off the angled roofs. The heated stones under the furs kept the people warm in their beds, out of the shear cold of this winter's storm.

But all was not well in this small, humble place...

It started with a faint rumbling in the ground, then the noise of crunching snow filling the village. There were sounds of bumps and scrapes against the walls. A sudden clunk against Henry's wall woke him from his slumber, and that's when he heard it. The guttural cacophony coming from outside, violent cracks against the wooden homes, and screams from people outside.

"Mom? What's happening?" Little Henry asked, running out to the crackling fireplace where his mother sat, just having put down her knitting needles and wool spool. She got up and grabbed little Henry, lifting him up into a warm hug.

"I don't know, sweetie." She responded, holding her son tightly, both frightened. Every sound of impact against their hearth's walls caused the two to jerk in fear. The inhuman screeches and terrified wails outside grew louder and louder, causing little Henry's tears to flow and his little body shiver.

"Wh-where's daddy?" The young one whimpered, he and his mother huddled in the corner, the dim, flickering light of the fire cast shadows of monsters in the dark, reaching out to grab him, just like the monsters outside.

"I don't know..." The woman clutched her son tighter, their door shook, and their lock rattled. She held Henry close, his cries growing louder. The young mother knew she had to act to protect her little one... "We have to go!" She stood up, running over to the table where their winter furs lay.

Henry slid out of her grip and stood next to her, too scared to say anything. A violent crack came from their door, frightening the boy even further. His mother now clad in fur slipped Henry's fur onto him before picking him up again.

She scurried through the darkness towards the back door, placing an ear against the hard wood, not hearing any threats on the other side, she slid the iron lock away and opened the door, letting in a freezing wind that irritated her eyes. She ran as fast as she could out into the dark, snowy abyss, her feet sinking up to her knees in the snow, the mother knew how vulnerable to the dangers lurking in the dark, but she didn't care. She had to protect her baby.

She kept to the dark corners and alleys as she hurried through the village, every torch she saw in the distance through the thick snowfall was accompanied by writhing dark figures and screams of horror. Every step through the heavy blanket of snow stressed the muscles in her legs, causing them to ache and beg for rest. But as she tread through a clearing, she passed a peculiar sight. It looked like a man at first, but on a second glance, the young mother realized that it wasn't.

It stood tall, long white hair blowing in the wind, it's pale expressionless face held two deep blue eyes, it's gaze pierced her soul, and there on the ground before it was a small group of her fellow villagers, all shivering, bowing before this strange blue-eyed creature. Her grip tightened on her boy Henry as she saw a wave of dark figures emerge from the blizzard. The closer they got, the more she could see. A swarm of the dead rushed towards her! Their rotted faces, exposed bone, and blue eyes all blurred into one another in their frenzy. They flowed around the pale blue eyed creature, and completely ignored the bowing villagers. The dead were soon upon her, the pain of stabbing blades filled her body, and the screams of little Henry as they tore him out of her arms turned to vile gurgling when a walking corpse slit his throat. She didn't even have time to mourn, as the cold darkness overtook her, and everything that she ever was faded into nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

Beric Dondarrion stared intently at Last Hearth with his one good eye. His face burned in the freezing wind as he, Tormund Giantsbane, and half a dozen men of the Night's Watch rode on horseback bound for the torchlit Umber Castle. The night sky was almost completely covered in clouds, and they could barely see the snow covered path in front of them. The horses wheezed from fatigue, their exertion being the only thing keeping them warm enough to not collapse on the spot.

"You think they'll believe us, one-eye?" Tormund loudly grunted, barely audible above the wind and stomping of the horses, his gruff voice shuddering from the cold. His orange beard couldn't hide his worried expression. Beric looked over at his freefolk companion and shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know." He replied softly, wincing at the snow blowing into his face. "There's no way they got a raven from Eastwatch." Beric shook his head and adjusted his eyepatch. "The wall came down too quickly. There was no time for anyone to write a raven scroll." He looked forward again, Last Hearth wasn't that far away. "Our survival was nothin' short of a miracle. The lord of light has a purpose for us yet."

"Every word comin' out'chure mouth always gotta be _lord of light_ this, _lord of light_ that. If that fire god of yours showed up right now, you'd start suckin' his cock, wouldn't ya?" Tormund taunted, chuckling to himself.

"Aye... I just might." He retorted sarcastically, not taking his eye off the castle ahead of them.

* * *

"Night's Watch!" The black-clad rider shouted to the guards on Last Hearth's battlements. "Open the gate!" Beric, Tormund, and the six Night's Watchmen idled on their shivering horses outside the castle gate. The guards looked at one another in confusion.

"State yer business!" One of the guards demanded, looking down at the eight riders. Tormund growled impatiently.

"The fucking wall is gone!" Tormund shouted in frustration. "Those dead men that the King in the North warned you all about? Well they're on their fuckin' way right now!" The guards chuckled to one another.

"Well why didn't we get a raven?" Came the inquisitive Umber guard. Tormund threw his hands up and growled ever louder.

"You think we had time to send one!?" One of the Night's Watchmen scoffed. "Eastwatch was overrun before we could even think of writing any scrolls!"

"Stand down, men!" Came a faint young sounding voice from the battlements. The guards walked away without uttering a word. The eight riders stared up puzzled, hoping to see someone who would listen to them.

A young boy looked over the battlements at the group. "Open the gates!" The boy ordered, followed swiftly by the large wooden doors in front of them parting and swinging inwards. The eight riders dismounted their horses and entered the castle.

"We need to send every raven you have!" Shouted Beric Dondarrion, looking around for the boy. "The dead march South!" He looked over his shoulder and saw that little blonde-haired boy rushing down a set of stone stairs from the battlements followed by guards.

"I swore my sword to the King in the North. As lord of House Umber, it is my duty to uphold my oath and protect my people." The boy stood before them proudly, but his concerned face signalled he knew he was in over his head.

"Ah, lord Ned Umber." Beric bowed his head to the little lord before continuing. "We barely escaped Eastwatch. The dead have breached the wall and are on our heels." The one eyed man looked around, seeing the dimly lit inhabitants of the castle watching and listening. "We need to warn all the surrounding holds, and evacuate the castle. Your King in the North has gathered his bannermen, and the armies of the dragon queen at Winterfell. That's where we should all go." Beric explained, moving closer to one of the lit torches for warmth.

Lord Ned Umber looked at his men and nodded.

"Very well." He told his guards. "Get the maester to write messages to everyone we can to warn them. Gather all the remaining food and march every man, woman, and child to Winterfell." Ned ordered, his guards bowing and rushing off to fulfill their duties.


	3. Chapter 3

Arya stood proudly among a crowd outside of Winterfell, watching the dragon queen's foreign Unsullied army marched with strength and discipline on the road into Winterfell. The Stark girl felt a twinge of pride at the sight, knowing it was her brother, the King in the North who secured an alliance with the silver haired queen from beyond the sea.

"_How many of them are there?"_ Arya wondered, looking to her right and seeing the army formations approaching from as far as the eye can see. Two people on horseback were riding towards Arya's position, both protected by the faction of spear-wielding Unsullied. The Stark girl's heart skipped a beat when she looked closer at these mounted individuals. One of them was a beautiful woman draped in white fur, with a head of silver braided hair on top. Certainly the dragon queen, and next to her rode a black haired man clad in dark furs, wearing the coat of plates of a Northern soldier, and a steel gorget with mirrored direwolf sigils. Arya hadn't seen him in many years, but she knew this was Jon.

She watched her brother pass with a huge grin on her face, the same warmth filled her body that she felt when she reunited with Sansa and Bran. A large, uncoordinated mass of wild-haired, tan skinned horsemen followed her brother closely, their huge hooked blades caught the Stark girl's attention. She remembers seeing a few of those swords during her time as a Faceless Man in Braavos. A large man with a scarred face caught her eye.

"_The Hound!? How!?" _She thought, cocking her head and following him with her eyes, but yet another face caught her attention. A freshly shaven, short haired young man riding near an approaching carriage. It was Gendry. Arya had to pinch herself to see if she was dreaming. She couldn't believe it. She hadn't seen Gendry since the Brotherhood Without Banners sold him to the Red Woman, who Arya assumed had him killed for some horrible magic ritual. She was glad to see him well, and she looked forward to catching up with him.

* * *

Tyrion sat patiently in the carriage rolling on the bumpy road towards Winterfell. The smell of sweaty soldiers and horse shit filled his nostrils with every breath. His queen's handmaiden, Missandei of Naath sat across from him, shivering even in the thick warm clothing provided to her. They were a long way from the warmth of Meereen, and it reminded him of the time he visited the wall many years ago. Varys sat next to the shivering Southern girl with an arm wrapped around her. Tyrion noticed the occasional chill running through him, and this gave the half-man an idea for a joke.

"You should consider yourself lucky." Tyrion started, looking over at Varys while trying to hide the mild grin on his face. "At least your balls won't freeze off." Varys looked over at the imp while Missandei rolled her eyes.

"You take great offence at dwarf jokes, but love telling eunuch jokes, why is that?" Asked the bald spymaster in his typical soft voice.

"Because I have balls. And you don't." Replied Tyrion with a smirk. Varys scoffed at the half-man and looked out at the frozen landscape of Winterfell. A familiar but frightening shriek came from the sky, and after flinching, Tyrion stuck his head out the carriage window and spotted Rhaegal and Drogon flying high above them. The sight of the two dragons caused a mild panic in the crowds of Northerners gathered around the path. Women screamed, and men grabbed their families to take cover. The half-man chuckled at their reactions, knowing that as long as their mother was around, the people would have nothing to fear.

"They'll get used to them." Missandei stated shakily, seeing the looks of terror on the faces of the common folk. Tyrion shook his head.

"No." He replied. "No they won't."

* * *

Bran sit calmly in his wheelchair, the harsh winter winds of the North unable to reach him thanks to the tall castle walls. He waited patiently for Jon to come through the gates, he had urgent news to share with the King in the North. It didn't take long for Jon to enter the castle. He was mounted on horseback, and his eyes quickly locked on his brother. Jon hopped off the horse and handed the reigns to a stable boy before rushing over to Bran. His embrace was warm and strong, and his lips pressed onto Bran's forehead, kissing him lovingly.

"Look at you!" Jon started, smiling at his little brother, not having seen him in so long. He sniffed and caught his breath. "You're a man."

"Almost." Responded the Three Eyed Raven, lacking the enthusiasm that Brandon Stark would have shown. His blank expression softened Jon's smile back into neutrality. The black haired ruler of Winterfell glanced upwards at Sansa smiling down at him, glad to have him back home. Jon embraced his sister in a hug, one that Sansa thought might never happen thanks to her distrust of the Targaryen girl's summon.

"Where's Arya?" Jon asked softly, releasing his grip and standing back from his sister.

"Lurking somewhere." Sansa answered, rolling her eyes, disappointed that Arya wasn't here to welcome Jon home. She glimpsed the silver-haired women approaching the family, and Sansa's warm smile faded.

"This is Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen." Jon stated proudly, lowering his gaze before her. He then pointed to his red haired sister. "My sister, Sansa Stark. The Lady of Winterfell."

"Thank you for inviting us into your home, Lady Stark." Said Daenerys, her voice softer and less authoritative than usual. "The North is as beautiful as your brother claimed. As are you." The remark make Sansa's fake smile show signs of honesty, and she bowed her head to the dragon queen.

"Winterfell is yours, your grace." Sansa responded uncomfortably after a pause. A quick set of firm footsteps approached the group. It was young Lyanna Mormont, Lady of Bear Island.

"Your grace." The small girl greeted with an irritated tone. "You left the North as our King, but I'm not so sure what you are anymore." She stated, eyes locked on Jon.

"It's not important." Jon sighed. But Lyanna furrowed her brow.

"Not important!?" She exclaimed. "We named you King in the North!" Growled the girl. Some hollers of agreement could be heard from the crowded courtyard.

"You did, my Lady. It was the honour of my life." Jon stated, putting on an air of authority. "I will be forever grateful for your faith." He paused for a moment. "But when I left Winterfell, I told you all that we needed allies, or we will die." Lyanna took a step back, defiant eyes still locked on her King. "I brought those allies to fight alongside us." He pointed to soldiers both outside and inside the castle, clad in dark leather and wielding spears and shields. "I had a choice. Keep my crown, or protect the North. I chose the North." Jon stated authoritatively, glaring back at Lyanna, and then glancing at the dragon queen, who was taken aback by the small girl's bold defiance.

"We don't have time for this!" Exclaimed the Three Eyed Raven, looking at Daenerys, who returned his look. "The Night King has your dragon, Viserion. He's one of them now." Her face sunk into a cold glower, her lips parting in shock. "The wall has fallen. The dead march South."


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa sat in the council room, tapping her finger on the ancient wooden table, her anxiety was through the roof. Her duties as Lady of Winterfell have taken a toll on her. Bearing the responsibility for the well being of an entire city didn't seem so difficult before, but now it was always haunting her. She heard the door creaking open and whipped her head over to see who it was. To Sansa's relief, it was Jon.

"Hey. Is this a good time?" He whispered, body halfway through the door.

"Of course." She replied, cocking her head back to beckon her brother into the room. Jon shut the door behind him and walked towards the table, his boots making heavy clunks as they fall on the floor with each step. He scraped a chair across the hard wood floor and fell into it, resting his arm on the table.

"I'm told you've done a good job ruling Winterfell while I was gone." Came Jon, nodding at her approvingly. "I knew I was right to trust it to you."

"We don't have enough." Sansa stated bluntly, looking away from her brother, sniffing wetly. "Food, I mean. We don't have enough food." She explained. Jon looked at her puzzled.

"When I left, we had enough stored to last us through the winter, assuming it wasn't a long one." Jon stated, unsure what the problem was. Sansa sighed.

"Yes. But that was before we had thousands and thousands of _your_ queen's soldiers to feed. Not to mention the Lannister army that's coming here." She shook her head and chuckled. "And those two dragons have already eaten three sheep and two pigs in the few hours they've been here. And I just had the maester send every raven we had telling lords of surrounding holds to evacuate to Winterfell." Sansa slumped back in her chair and sighed. "If we're lucky, the dead will kill us all and save us the pain of starvation."

* * *

Gendry loaded the black chunks of dragon glass into a sack and heaved the heavy load over his back, making his way over to the castle forge, dumping the contents of the sack into a large pile in the corner. Some of the chunks shattered on impact with one another, covering the ground in small, sharp shards.

"Arrowheads." He muttered, taking the sack back to the cart and filling it up again. Gendry looked over his shoulder at one of his fellow craftsmen trying to pick up the little obsidian shards. He was about to warn his colleague, but it was too late. The craftsman flinched and dropped a shard to the ground, followed by a few droplets of blood.

"Ah! Cunt! That's sharp!" He growled, putting his bleeding thumb into his mouth to suck like a baby. Gendry and a few other men laughed at his misfortune, shook their heads and went back to work.

* * *

Tyrion ascended the wooden steps to the balcony overlooking the courtyard. He saw Sansa staring off into the distance up there, and after all this time, he thought it proper that he greet his former wife. As he rose to the top of the stairs, he spotted Sansa in that same position, staring off at nothing, her slow breath sent mist into the cold air.

"The Lady of Winterfell." Tyrion stated, slowly approaching Sansa before leaning against the rail post. His experience with people left him highly familiar with their body language, and while the layman wouldn't notice anything wrong with her, to Tyrion, she may as well be crying. "Has a nice ring to it." He complimented, breaking Sansa's trance-like state.

"So does Hand of the Queen." She answered, giving the imp a clearly fake smile. "Depending on the queen, I suppose." Sansa looked back over the rails and into the distance.

"The last time we spoke was a Joffrey's wedding. Miserable affair." Tyrion sighed and look away from her.

"It had it's moments." She muttered with a smirk, looking down at her former husband. "Apologies for leaving like that."

"Yes. It was a bit hard to explain why my wife fled moments after the king's murder." He gave her a smile and started pacing around.

"I'm glad you're alive." Sansa admitted, a genuine smile forming on her lips. Tyrion felt pleased at this. That she didn't blame him for any of the horrible things they did to her.

"Many underestimated you, Sansa. Most of them are dead now." He stated, following Sansa's path as she began to walk. "I'm sure you aren't thrilled to know the Lannister army is marching North."

"Even less thrilled than I am about Jon bending the knee." She paused and glanced at the half-man. "But as long as your sister is staying in King's Landing, I can tolerate it."

* * *

It was always cold in the godswood during winter. As a child, Jon would always wonder how people could stand spending hours praying to the countless old gods before the weirwood tree. But as he stood there now, the winter cold of his childhood produced only mild chills. The knew real cold now. The merciless biting of the blizzards beyond the wall, the snow getting inside your boots and melting only to freeze over again, and the nights where you'd stop shivering because your body was starting to shut down. Jon stood before the weirwood tree, it's leaves as red as blood and it's carved face covered in frozen sap. He remembered his father Ned Stark sitting by the tree, polishing the massive sword Ice, just after beheading a Night's Watch deserter with it. Something he did frequently.

"You used to be taller." Came a female voice from behind Jon, frightening him. He wheeled around and saw his little sister Arya standing there.

"How did you sneak up on me?" Jon asked, shocked at her silent approach in all this snow.

"How did you survive a knife through the heart?" Arya countered, staring at her big brother with an upturned chin.

"I didn't." He answered, a smile growing on his face. The two exchanged a stare for a brief moment before Arya cracked a big smile and ran over to Jon, leaping into his arms. The two shared a long, warm, hug. Tears welled up in Jon's eyes, having missed her so greatly. Jon released his sister and they both stood a pace away from each other. "You still have your sword!" He exclaimed, looking down at Needle on Arya's hip. She drew the small sword with a grin.

"Needle." She said, holding it out to Jon, who took it in his hands and admired it with nostalgia.

"Have you ever had to use it?" He asked with concern, looking at Arya who tilted her head and looked down at the snow.

"Once or twice." Arya admitted, letting a sigh out through her nose and nodding, taking the sword back and sheathing it again. Jon gave her a grin and drew Longclaw, the blade sliding out of it's scabbard and resting on Jon's hand, offering it to Arya to examine. "Valyrian steel." She remarked, surprised to see such a precious weapon in her brother's posession.

"Jealous?" He taunted, smiling at Arya expertly handling the sword.

"Too heavy for me." She replied with a hint of sarcasm in her voice, handing Longclaw back to her brother, who quickly slid it back into it's scabbard.

"Where were you before?" Jon wondered, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I could have used your help with Sansa." He admitted, knowing Arya had trouble with Sansa as well when they were all children.

"She doesn't like your queen." Arya nodded, remembering eavesdropping on her sister and advisers. "She's always wanted to be queen. You should have seen her when we went down to King's Landing." She rolled her eyes, remembering how Sansa lied about that fight with Joffrey those many years ago, and how it lead to her friend, the butcher's boy being killed. "She's jealous." Arya concluded, pausing for a moment. "But she's family." Jon smiled at her remark. "And you're family, too. Don't forget that." The two embraced each other once again.


	5. Chapter 5

The Southern sun beat down on Euron's face, but brought him no warmth. The wind that brushed his hair brought only chills, and of course the sleet falling on the once green ground. Winter has come. The King of the Iron Islands looked to the Andal besides him, his long blonde hair slicked back over his ears, dark green eyes locked on the Red Keep. Euron was surprised he hasn't taken shelter below deck like his subordinates have. The Golden Company was an Essosi army, after all, much warmer winters than Westeros. The sellsword Captain returned Euron's glance and gave him a nod.

"We'll be dockin' soon. Make sure your landlubbers clean the bile off their armour. We're meeting the queen." Ordered Euron as he made his way towards the hatch next to the mast, past all the strong Ironborn men swabbing the deck and managing the kraken sigiled sails.

"As you command, your grace." Replied the Andal, bowing his head. Euron couldn't help but grin at being properly addressed for once. He kicked open the hatch and dropped below deck, completely ignoring the ladder, and landing on his feet in the dark with a thud. He made his way over to the special cabin, not giving his eyes time to adjust to the darkness, as Euron knew his ship in and out.

"How're ya holdin' up!?" Euron taunted, kicking the door to the cabin open, causing the door to swing wildly and crash into a table, knocking over a neglected wine glass, shattering it all over the rotting floorboards. Yara Greyjoy looked up at her uncle unamused, but unable to move, as her hands were tied around a post behind her.

"Why not just get it over with and kill me already!?" She retorted, scoffing at his carefree malevolence. But Euron didn't let up, kneeling down beside her and trying to stroke her face, from which she jerked away.

"Aww, now that wouldn't be right." He wagged his finger at his niece, lifting the water canteen off his hip, offering it to her. "We are family after all." Yara hocked up a loogie and spit at him, missing by a hair thanks to her uncle's precise dodge. He took the water canteen away, opting to take a seat on the opposite side of the post, marking yet another day without water for Yara. "The last of the Greyjoys-"

"Theon is still out there!" She interrupted, defiance still blazing in her eyes.

"If he's got no balls, he's as good as chum for the fishes!" Euron hissed back. "What kinda Greyjoy can't rape a screamin' woman until she's got a bellyful a' bastards in 'er?" He cackled, sending spittle flying all over Yara's ear. She grit her teeth hard.

"That what you got planned for me, hmm?" Yara chimed, biting down on her inner cheek. Her uncle laughed hardily.

"Nooo, no." Euron slapped his knee. "You knows I cut the tongues outta me crewmen." Sighing, he waved his arm around mockingly. "And that Captain Harry cunt's got no love for havin' yarns. And his shit skinned soldiers are either too busy puking their guts out, or got some accent I can't understand half-a' what they says." Euron sighed, looking back over his shoulder at Yara. "If I fucked you, ya'd never have a word to say to me again." He smiled. "It gets lonely at sea. I likes havin' ya here." He took a swig from the leather canteen. Hearing that water flowing only tormented her more.

"Are we in King's Landing?" She asked, hoping the smell of shit wasn't coming from her trousers. Her uncle responded with an affirmative grunt. "You picked the losing side." She stated, confident in the strength of the dragon queen's forces. Euron stood slowly, leaning against the post and looked down at her.

"Well then I'll just sail the iron fleet somewhere else." He chuckled, taking another gulp of fresh water before sticking the cap back on the canteen and kneeling down to look her in the eye, a big toothy grin on his face. "But the queen has a little project. Big crossbows mounted all over the city, and on my ships." His grin grew wider. "They'll shoot those little dragons outta the sky. Then once your queen's armies are all dealt with, and we capture her." Euron paused for a moment before suddenly striking the post. "Then I'm gonna fuck her like a dog! Then watch as the Mountain tears her limb from limb." He walked towards the door, ready to leave. "But first, I'm gonna put a prince in Cersei Lannister." Euron stomped away, laughing like he'd heard the funniest joke ever told.

* * *

Cersei sat forward on the iron throne, the bumps and edges of the swords were quite uncomfortable against her soft, sensitive back. She looked down at Harry Strickland, the Andal Captain of the Golden Company that Euron ferried over on his thousand ships. His long blonde hair and smug, satisfied face reminded her a lot of Jaime, who she was starting to miss. Cersei had nobody left except for him, and he stormed out of the city not long after she informed him that the Lannister army would remain in King's Landing. No father, no mother, no sons, no daughters, no cousins. All dead. Oh how desperately she wanted Jaime back at her side, there to love her and hold her, their child growing in her belly. But as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, she must not allow her feelings be known, lest her subjects perceive a weakness to be attacked.

"Twenty thousand men, is it?" She asked, her voice firm and inquisitive.

"Yes, your grace." Strickland replied, bowing his head as he did so. Even his voice had traces of Jaime in it, minus the exotic accent. "A few died in transit." He added, looking over to Euron, who shugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows, looking up to Cersei.

"They cheated at dice!" He whined sarcastically, looking back at Harry. "Or maybe I cheated?" Pausing for a moment. "Someone cheated." Euron finished, nodding and looking back to his queen."You won't miss em, anyway. Terrible fighters."

"Horses?" Cersei inquired, shaking her head at the ironborn savage.

"Two thousand." The sellsword Captain answered, lifting his chin and giving a friendly smile.

"And elephants?" Her satisfaction grew.

"No elephants, your grace." Harry bowed his head apologetically as Cersei's grin fell into a confused frown.

"I was told the Golden Company had elephants." She responded coldly, a hint of annoyance in her voice. She felt a faint pain in her belly, one that she's never felt before. Cersei elected to ignore it.

"They are excellent beasts, your grace. But not well suited to long sea voyages." Harry explained, rolling his lips inward and lowering his eyes. Cersei rolled her eyes and gave a long sigh. Hunching forward a bit, trying to dull the pain.

"That's disappointing. But in any event, you and your men are most welcome here in King's Landing, Captain Strickland." She finished.

"We look forward to fighting on your behalf, your grace." The golden armoured mercenary bowed his head and took his leave. Cersei glanced over at Euron, who returned a toothy grin, licking his lips quickly. Averting her eyes for a moment, she looked down at the floor in front of her, placing a hand over her belly before standing up. Whatever this cramp in her gut was, it wasn't going away anytime soon.


	6. Chapter 6

Dany strolled through the Winterfell courtyard with Jon, the white fur garb keeping her warm in all this unfamiliar Northern cold. They observed the construction of trebuchets, massive catapults, and the wrapping of their large stone projectiles with rags dipped in flammable pitch. The trebuchets were huge, taking up quite a lot of space in the courtyard, but she was told they were most effective behind the walls by Jorah and her other advisers, so Daenerys trusted in their wisdom.

The two walked together through the gate, and watched as every unskilled labourer in Winterfell joined the soldiers in digging a trench to protect the castle walls. It was already ten feet deep, and twenty feet wide. Supposedly it was going to be filled with bark and whatever scraps of wood were left over from making spear and axe hafts, and arrow shafts, so they could set fire to the bottom of the trench, burning any of the enemy that fell in.

"Your sister doesn't like me." Dany stated, looking to her right at Jon, who returned her glance. "But I'm sure you already knew that."

"She doesn't know you." Jon sighed, nodding his head in agreement with his queen. "Though she didn't like me much when we were growing up, either."

"She doesn't need to be my friend." Daenerys scoffed, maintaining eye contact with him. "But I am her queen, and if she can't respect me-" She was interrupted by a distant call.

"Khaleesi!" Called a wild-haired Dothraki rider, swiftly galloping towards the two. Dany strode towards the horseman.

"Fini is anna?" Inquired the dragon queen in a foreign tongue.

"Yeri zhavorsa. Rekke's ato ojil." Answered the Dothraki man, pointing over his shoulder towards a hill. Dany whirled her head back to look at Jon, a look of concern on her face.

"What's wrong?" Asked Jon, stepping towards Daenerys, not understanding what she was told.

"My dragons are barely moving!" She yelled back, locking her eyes on the hill that her bloodrider pointed to before taking off in a mad sprint. Jon, caught off guard, went after her. He could barely keep up with his queen, surprising him quite a lot. She was fast!

The two ran as fast as they could past all the working men, through the deep, uncleared snow, and up over the small hill. Jon wouldn't be able to hear anyone calling out to him running against the wind, making a huge racket in his ears.

"Rhaegal! Drogon!" Dany yelled, turning around the larger hill and spotting her two dragons curled up side-by-side, a thin coating of snow resting on top of both of them. Both dragons stirred slightly, looking over at their mother, eyelids barely open past a slit. They were about to rest their heads again when Jon ran around the bend as well. The two dragons immediately sprung into action and lunged their bodies between Daenerys and Jon, baring their teeth and shrieking at him.

"Shit!" Jon yelped, grinding to a halt and backing away, slipping on some ice and landing on his ass. The two dragons immediately lowered their heads and backed away when Dany began singing to them in High Valyrian in a soft tone. The two savage beasts suddenly acted like submissive puppies, parting their place between Jon and their mother, allowing her through.

"They must have thought you were trying to hurt me." She said, laughing like nothing had happened. She gave Jon a warm smile and extended a hand down towards him. He grabbed onto her and stood up, his pants now wet from falling in the snow and ice.

"P-protective of their mother." Jon stuttered, keeping his eyes locked on the dragons, taking a few more steps backwards.

"They're cold." Dany stated, trotting over towards Drogon and climbing up onto his back like she'd done so a thousand times. "Some exercise will warm them up." She motioned to Jon to follow her. "Come and get on Rhaegal's back! Your queen commands it!" Dany called playfully, her warm smile still on her face. Jon hesitantly made his way towards the smaller dragon.

"But I don't know how to ride a dragon." He moaned nervously.

"Nobody knows until they try." She answered.

"But what if he doesn't want me to!?" Jon barked back.

"Then I've enjoyed your company, Jon Snow." Dany answered again. Jon shakily climbed onto Rhaegal's back, still nervous.

"Um. What do I hold onto?" Jon asked.

"Anything you can." Dany answered, immediately followed by Drogon jumping into the air and beating his wings, taking off into the sky, beckoning Rhaegal to do the same.

"Oh shit!" Jon shouted, quickly grabbing onto the spikes on Rhaegal's neck and tucking his head down, clamping the dragon's hide with his legs in a desperate attempt to hang on. Before he even knew it, they were both a hundred feet in the air, flying faster than any horse could gallop! They twisted and turned, dropped and rose. The wind in Jon's face burned his eyes and made them water. _"__How can she do this all the time!?" _He thought to himself, the muscles in his legs ached from futile attempts to clamp down on something, and his leather gloves kept sliding on Rhaegal's spikes. So many times he thought he was going to slip off and fall, but when he opened his eyes, he beheld Drogon diving down over a cliff face, and Jon knew that Rhaegal would follow.

His stomach sank as the dragon dove, flying straight down beyond the cliff, Jon howled like a direwolf as he watched the ground approach, but Rhaegal turned his chest upwards and soared at the bottom of the cliff, barely above the ground! Jon saw Dany standing near Drogon at the base of another cliff, and he felt the impact of the dragon landing and sliding towards his brother. He finally came to a stop, the nightmare was over.

"Have fun?" Teased Daenerys as she watched Jon roll off the dragon and land face first in the snow. She looked over at her dragons huddling together near a waterfall, a clearing of rocks, and a bubbling steaming body of water. "A hot spring." She said to Jon, stumbling as he rose to his feet.

"You may have completely ruined horses for me." He joked, standing upright with a big smile on his face. Dany giggled and walked towards the waterfall, the air getting warmer the closer she got.

"They don't like it in the North." She sighed, watching the two dragons soaking themselves in the warm water. She undid the buttons on her white fur garb and slipped it off, tossing it behind her. She had a thin red shirt on underneath, which was quickly discarded as well. Jon watched as his queen undressed and waded into the steaming pool of water, her skin almost as white as snow. "Care to join me?" She invited, turning back towards Jon, who didn't hesitate to toss his thick fur cape aside, along with his Northern attire. The two sat together in the hot spring, warmth seeping into both of them and making the Winter cold like a distant memory. The two embraced one another, Jon and Daenerys, they locked lips in a deep kiss. Jon spotted Drogon craning his neck over the pool watching him closely as he held Dany.


	7. Chapter 7

Euron laid in lavish silk bed, resting his head on his hands, a huge grin sprawled out over his face. Cersei slipped out of the lavender sheets and sat on the edge, trying to reach for her rouge bed robe, but the pain in her gut stopping her in her tracks. She hunched over, clamping her hands over her belly and wincing. The ache has gotten progressively worse as the day passed, her time in bed with the ironborn man only seemed to aggravate it. She stood up shakily, her knees barely allowing her the strength to stand. Slipping on her bed robe, she shambled over to the table to fetch herself some wine. Euron saw her fumbling around and wincing in pain, and he laughed.

"Should have warned, ya!" Euron cackled. "My cock'll tear you in half!" Cersei could barely sigh, slumping down in her cushioned chair and pouring herself a cup of her favourite blood-red wine.

"N-no jokes..." She muttered, taking a half-hearted sip, the tearing pain in her belly not taking kindly to the drink.

"You'll get used to it. I'm at least twice the size of the kingslayer." He looked up, his toothy grin on full display. "If I'm gonna put a prince in-"

"No jokes!" She roared, her face scrunched up from pain. Cersei stood once more, her knees toppling the chair to the floor. The queen stumbled over to the door, bed robe open, fully hunched over. She slid the latch into the door with a clunk and swung it open, three members of her Queensguard standing attentively outside, including the Mountain, all clad in their silver and black armour.

"Your grace!" One of the men stepped forward, facing her with his head high, arms at his side. He looked down at her pained body, sneaking a glance of her dangling tits.

"S-summon Qyburn at once!" Cersei rasped, supporting herself on the door frame, barely able to stand.

"At once, your grace!" He barked, spinning around and running through the dark halls of the Red Keep, the moonlight reflecting off the silver of his armour until he was nothing but a shadow in the distance.

* * *

There it was, Euron Greyjoy's flagship, anchored down and swaying gently in the calm Southern waters not a hundred feet from the snow coated King's Landing. Theon drew his dagger and placed it's blade between his teeth, and the rest of his men did the same. They shivered in the cold winter night, having left their leather-clad plate armour on board their ship, preferring to move silently in their soft arming jacks. Theon reached his hand out and pushed against the back of his uncle's ship to prevent their rowboat from colliding with it and making noise.

"Grappling." An ironborn man quietly muttered around the sharp blade clamped in his teeth. He brandished a bundle of cloth and wool, wrapped and tied around a three pronged grappling hook at the end of a rope. The man stood and the rest lowered their heads, allowing him to spin the rope around and around before releasing it, causing the cloaked hook to fly upwards over the ship's railing and land silently on deck. He reeled in the rope before catching a snag, meaning the hook had found it's mark, and it was time to climb.

"On me." Theon whispered around the blade in his mouth. He picked up his short recurved bow and slung it over his shoulder, and he felt the quiver on his hip, filled with freshly fletched arrows. Theon grasped the rope and hopped off the rowboat, bending his knees as his boots made contact with the ship to muffle the impact. He climbed with determination and strength, balancing his upper body strength with his feet firmly planted into the back of the ship with each step. It was like he was walking vertically. He peeked over his shoulder and saw his men following him up. As Theon grabbed hold of the rails, he glanced over the rails, seeing a single crewman leaning against the ship's wheel, looking down on deck, draped in a thick wool doublet, protected from the winter's cold. Theon quietly vaulted the rail, taking care that his bow would not tap against the hard wood. He crouched down and slowly approached this lone crewman, taking the dagger out of his mouth and holding it ready to pierce the man's flesh.

"Grough!" Was the last sound the man made before turning into a low gurgling as Theon grabbeded the man's head and slid the sharp blade across his throat, cutting deeply into his windpipe and all the precious arteries. The blood flowed down his neck and soaked into his wool doublet. He didn't struggle as much as Theon thought, simply grasping at his bloody throat and falling limp after ten seconds. He silently laid the body down, careful not to let the blood pool around him, lest it creep between the floorboards and alert any man in the captain's cabin beneath them. He cleaned the blood from the blade against the wool doublet and put the dagger back in his mouth.

Theon's men all vaulted onto the ship one by one behind him, retrieved their bows and nocked their first arrow. They all stood in unison and drew their bows, the heavy draw weight digging the string into their fingers.

"Grah!" "Ough!" "Argh!" Came the chorus of pain as Theon and his men loosed their volley of arrows against the men on deck. The sharp arrowheads pierced their chests, necks, and skulls, and all those crewmen above deck fell with a series of thuds. The group of ironborn archers nocked their second arrows and waited, the combined sound of their heartbeats grew louder than the sounds of the waves around them. Seconds felt like hours, and Theon expected to hear a storm of stomping feet coming from below deck. But nothing happened.

"Forward." Theon whispered, muffled slightly by the blade in his mouth, making his way silently down the stairs along with his men. The door to Euron's cabin swung open and Theon drew his bow, prepared to fell anyone inside. There was nobody. Bedsheets were ruffled, empty bottles all over the floor, rolling back and forth with the ship's sway. He relaxed his bow and moved to the hatch by the mast, his men assumed a formation surrounding the hatch and drew their bows, aiming towards the hatch as Theon lifted it up. Nobody.

Theon and his men slung their bows over their shoulders and descended into the darkness.

_Tch Tchshwoooph_ Went the flint and steel as they collided and lit the torch with their sparks. Theon carried the torch, and led the ironborn through the darkness below deck, following the sound of snoring into a big open room hammocks hung across the wall, holding a bunch of sleeping men. Theon and his men lined up against the hammocks, took their daggers out of their mouths, clasped their hands over the sleeping men's mouths, and started stabbing them in the chest. The struggling, panicking men kicked and flinched, their efforts useless to stop their silent murder. Eventually the room was occupied only by corpses and the ones who made them.

Theon quietly opened the door in front of him, his men drawing their bows and looking in through the ever growing opening. One of the men tapped Theon on the shoulder and pointed inside, the rest of the raiders having relaxed. Theon entered the room and saw a girl sitting on the floor, head drooped, hands bound behind a post. It was Yara. As he walked closer, she looked up at her brother, a blank expression strewn across her face. He knelt down behind her and cut through her restraints, her arms swinging out and resting on the ground limply. Theon put his forearm under her shoulder and lifted Yara to her feet. She looked over at him, blank expression still on her face. Yara cocked her head backwards and lunged it straight into Theon's nose! He fell back, tripping over a stool and landing on a soft burlap sack.

"Uhh, what?" He moaned, grasping his nose and groaning at the pain. Yara looked down at her brother, and offered a hand to help him up. Theon looked at her puzzled, blood flowing out of his nostrils and across his cheek. He grabbed his sister's hand and hoisted himself back onto his feet. Yara gave him a look before striding out the door, followed quickly by Theon. They all made their way back above deck and stopped on the starboard side, opening a gate on the rails and seeing ladder steps leading down into the sea. Theon left his men and ran up the stairs past the wheel and over to the cloth-draped grappling hook. He looked overboard down at the one man in their rowboat.

"Bring her around to the starboard side! There are steps!" Theon commanded, unhooking the triple pronged hook and dropping it into the boat as the ironborn man rowed around the ship. As they all descended the ladder onto the boat, one by one, Theon looked out over the sea, seeing the moonlit fleet of a thousand ships just sitting there silently. He gulped and dropped himself into the boat.

* * *

"So you're telling me that the dragon queen has gone off to Winterfell?" Yara blurted, standing on the deck of her own flagship, the morning sun barely peeking above the horizon. Theon nodded. "To fight dead people?" He nodded again.

"We swore an oath to serve her." Theon stated, his head bowed submissively, the occasional twitch afflicting his lips.

"Yes, I know we swore the bloody oath. But are we seriously ignoring this chance to retake the Iron Islands just so we can fight fairy tales with our queen?" She scoffed, leaning against the rails and looking out at the ocean.

"This is serious, Yara. Our home can wait. We need to be there for her!" He asserted, a twinge of authority in his voice. Yara shook her head and laughed.

"Ah fuck it. We probably couldn't hold the islands once uncle comes to retake it." She stated with a smile on her face. "After Queen Daenerys takes the iron throne, she'll see to it we have our home again. I know an honest woman when I see her." She pushed herself off the rails and looked back to her brother. "Fine. We'll sail North past the Narrow Sea and dock at White Harbor, then go up to Winterfell to help her fight those fairy tales of hers."

"Thank you, Yara." Theon smiled and relaxed against the rails. His sister took a deep breath.

"We have our heading!" She shouted, all eyes turned towards her. "We sail for White Harbor!"


	8. Chapter 8

Horses, carts, banners, and refugees piled in an unorganized heap towards Winterfell, the frost hardened dirt road split and upturned from the mass of hooves, wheels, and boots. Of the refugees, the men were taken into the castle across the massive trench to be armed and trained to fight the dead, the women and children were led into a large clearing filled with tents and fires to be housed and fed for the period before the coming battle.

"The Karstarks." Varys commented, spotting the first wave of banners carried into Winterfell. Their banners black and their white sun sigil sitting proudly on the black backdrop.

"One of the better sigils." Tyrion remarked, looking up at Ser Davos Seaworth before chuckling. "Beats any onion, anyway." He strode away from the gate, it was getting crowded in the courtyard.

"Can't argue with that." Davos sighed, following Tyrion, Varys in tow behind him. The three turned a corner and trotted past stalls of craftsmen fletching arrows, shaping dragon glass, and smiths working overtime on the forge to produce whatever armour they could with the little steel they had. "Wasn't that long ago that the Starks and the Karstarks were slaughtering each other on the battlefield. Jon Snow brought peace between them."

"Our queen is grateful." Replied Tyrion dismissively, more focused on the stalls of workers, hoping to find a wine merchant.

"Her gratitude is lovely, but that's not my point." Ser Davos barked back, his Flea Bottom accent piercing through the noise of Northerners around them. "The Northmen are loyal to Jon Snow. Not to her." He sighed and rolled his eyes at Tyrion's apathy. "They don't know her. The Freefolk don't know her." Davos caught his breath, but choked on the stench of pig shit as they passed a sty. "Ugh. I've been up here a while, and I'm tellin' ya... They're stubborn as goats." The three squeezed through a mass of peasants carrying buckets of grain. "You want their loyalty? You gotta earn it." He finished, making Tyrion pause and stand in place for a moment, understanding the Onion Knight's lowborn wisdom.

"I sense that you're leading to a proposal." Tyrion stated, following Ser Davos up the stairs onto the walls of the castle.

"A proposal is what I'm proposing." Davos replied, staring out at the mass of tents and fires outside the castle, his short beard ruffling in the cold winter wind. "On the off chance that we survive the Night King, what if the Seven Kingdoms for once in their whole shit history were ruled by a just woman and an honourable man?" He commented, spying Jon and Daenerys walking back towards the castle, having been absent all night.

"They do make a handsome couple." Tyrion observed, seeing big smiles on both of their faces as they passed the common people without fear.

"You overestimate our influence." Accused Varys, voice softer than the fresh coat of snow covering the roofs of Winterfell. "Jon and Daenerys don't want to listen to lonely old men."

"I'm not that old." Tyrion remarked, looking up at Ser Davos and his white and grey peppered beard. "Not as old as him, at least." Davos exhaled through his nose and pulled a mild grin. "Our queen respects the wisdom of age."

"Of course she does." Varys interjected, shaking his head. "But respect is how the young keep us at a distance, so we don't remind them of an unpleasant truth."

"What is that?" Tyrion asked.

"Nothing lasts."

* * *

Jon and Dany strolled through the front gates of Winterfell into the crowded courtyard, having spent the previous night at the hot spring, and taking a bit longer than anticipated this morning, as the dragons were sleeping like logs in the warmth. Intending to continue his duties as Warden of the North, Jon made his way past the crowd, but spotted Sam, his fat frame unmistakable. Jon watched as he hugged a shorter skinny man in black. It was Ed.

"Ed." Jon muttered, changing course and rushing towards his two former brothers of the Night's Watch, a big grin on his face, so relieved to see Ed alive. Samwell and Ed broke their hug and turned to face Jon, smiles on both their faces. Jon's heart fluttered, making him feel like a boy again, innocently playing with his friends in the woods.

"Raurgh!" Roared a big orange bearded beast of a man as he plowed into Jon from the side, grabbing him by the shoulders and giving a hearty laugh. It was Tormund. "My little crow." He joked.

"I thought we lost you." Jon sighed, looking at Tormund like he was seeing a ghost. The wildling man shook his head and laughed, tapping Jon on the shoulder.

"Almost." He stated, pushing Jon aside into Ed's waiting arms, the two friends embracing one another in a show of kinship. The one-eyed Beric smiled at the display, offering a hand, to which Jon broke his hug with Ed and took, shaking his hand. Jon stood back and looked between Sam, Ed, Beric, and Tormund, almost in disbelief that this reunion could even take place. These were dark times, but Jon was as happy as he's ever been in these past few days. "Is the big woman still here?" Tormund looked over his shoulder and scanned around the courtyard for Brienne.

* * *

Gendry hammered the final iron rivet into the dragon glass axe he'd been preparing. The royal bastard lifted the axe up by the haft and admired his work for a moment before handing it off to Sandor Clegane, the Hound. The large scarred man scoffed at the small axe head, not even the diameter of his fist.

"You make this for shaving your cunt hairs?" The Hound sighed and dropped the axe on Gendry's workbench. "You can't expect me to fight with that." But Gendry took the axe in his hand, hefted it and swung down hard into a log, plunging the black blade deep into the wood.

"It's either that or nothing. If I make the blade too big, it'll shatter on impact." Gendry shrugged, pulling the axe out of the log and unceremoniously tossing it onto the table in front of the Hound.

"Watch yourself, boy." He growled, glaring at the accomplished blacksmith with contempt.

"Leave him be." Came Arya, appearing from the shadows behind the two men. She carried a long wooden staff in one hand, as well as Needle and a Valyrian steel dagger on her hip. The Hound whipped around and locked eyes with the girl, his lips parted in shock. There she was, the girl who left him for dead.

"I heard you were here." Grumbled the Hound, eyes unblinking, teeth grinding. "You left me to die."

"First I robbed you." Replied Arya, reliving those moments from so long ago. The Hound rose from his stool, his scars illuminated by the dim fires in the forge. He grabbed the puny axe and adjusted the handle in his hand, aligning the edge of the blade just right to cut, shear or chop anything in his way. He approached the tiny girl, eyes still locked to hers, and not detecting a hint of fear. He stopped a mere arms length away from Arya, the two exchanging glares colder than ice.

"You're a cold little bitch, aren't you?" He muttered, cold, piercing stare uninterrupted. The crackling of the forge fires breaking the terrible silence. "Guess that's why you're still alive." The Hound sighed, stepping around Arya and striding off into the shadows.

"That was a nice axe you made for him." Arya stated, looking at Gendry, and the nostalgic smile on his dust covered face. "You've gotten better."

"Thanks." Gendry stepped a little closer, still finding it hard to believe that she was alive and well here in Winterfell. "You have, too." He stumbled over his words. "I mean you look... Good."

"Thanks." Arya smiled. "You do, too." She stated, following Gendry as he walked back to his forge for warmth.

"This wouldn't be too bad a place to live if it weren't so cold." Gendry shivered, hovering his hands over the fire and sighing in relief.

"Best stay close to that forge, then." Arya commented, pausing to look at the collection of dragon glass weapons that Gendry had put together.

"Is that a command, Lady Stark?" He asked sarcastically, a huge grin across his face, chuckling when she rolled her eyes.

"Don't call me that." She sighed, shaking her head.

"As you wish, milady." Gendry laughed, reflecting happily on those old times when she'd squirm every time he called her that. Arya let a smirk stretch across her face, letting out a short giggle.

"Here's my wish." Arya rested the long staff against Gendry's workbench. "Can you stick a bunch of dragon glass shards into each end?" She asked, to which the blacksmith looked over the staff, but his eyes trailed off and landed on the dagger on Arya's hip. He remembers the sword, but this was new.

"I certainly can." Gendry answered before drawing an inquisitive breath. "What's that?" He pointed to the dagger with the fancy hilt. Arya unsheathed the blade, twirling it between her fingers before handing it over. Gendry admired the craftsmanship of the blade before noticing the distinct pattern weld. "That's Valyrian steel!" He gasped, glancing over at Arya who smirked with pride. "I always knew you were just another rich girl." He joked, handing the dagger back.

"And you don't know any other rich girls?" She added, sheathing the blade and walking away, spinning around and giving Gendry a smile before vanishing into the crowd.


	9. Chapter 9

Jon approached the council room through the dark, candlelit stone hall. He pressed his ear against the strong pine door, not hearing any commotion, he pounded on the thick door, knowing the muffling effect it often had on small knocks.

"Come in." Answered Sansa from the other side. Jon unlatched the door and slipped in, closing it behind him and walking over to the table, seeing his sister reading a number of raven scrolls. "Lord Glover wishes us good fortune, but he's staying in Deepwood Motte with his men." She stated, rolling her eyes and flicking the scroll down onto the table, paper folding in on itself and rolling into the pile of other raven scrolls Sansa had been reading. Jon looked at the scroll with bewilderment.

"House Glover will stand behind House Stark as we have for a thousand years." Jon recounted. "Isn't that what he said before?" Sansa shook her head and stood, pacing around the table.

"He said he'd stand behind Jon Snow." She corrected him, looking her brother in the eyes and sighing. "The King in the North." She stated before stomping towards the shadows of the dimly lit room.

"I told you we needed allies." Jon repeated, tired of defending his decisions.

"You didn't tell me you were going to abandon your crown!" She scoffed. Jon lowered his brow and stepped forward.

"I never wanted a crown." He sneered at Sansa. "All I wanted was to protect the North!" Jon shook his head and sighed. "I brought two armies home with me! Two dragons!"

"And a Targaryen queen." Sansa spun around to meet his glare. "Who's father our house fought to overthrow."

"Do you think we can defeat the army of the dead without her!?" Jon shot back, his face glowering with contempt. "I fought them, Sansa. Twice." She looked back with a snarky grin. "It doesn't matter what titles we hold. Without her, we don't stand a chance!" Jon panted, waiting for Sansa to come back with some witty reply, but none came. "She's not like her father, Sansa." He stated, face softening from contempt to humility. "When we were in danger, she didn't hesitate to fly North of the wall and rescue us. She lost one of her dragons. One of her children!"

"You love her." Sansa sighed, giving him a smug grin. "That's why you bent the knee." She shook her head and looked him over as he stumbled back, caught off guard by her accusation. "You love her more than your own family. More than the North."

"I do not love her!" Jon stepped towards her angrily. "You've never given her a chance! You've spent this entire time bickering over power when the North and all the other kingdoms are facing destruction!" Jon scowled at her, scanning her twitching face. "That's just it, isn't it? You love your own power more than you love the North." He accused, standing defiantly before her, glaring Sansa in the eyes, the silence in the room deafening both of them. Jon spotted a little tear form in the corner of her eye, glinting in the candle light. He whirled around and stomped towards the door, throwing it open and storming through the dark hallway.

* * *

The Maester's chambers were filled with decrepit old books, damp scrolls, and dusty tomes. The candle light flickered and danced around the dark room, keeping the musty odour and rot at bay with it's burning scents. Samwell Tarly sat at the ancient table, thumbing through the countless old texts he stole from the Citadel, focused so intently that he would go through long periods of pure silence between breaths, his heart beat slower than a sleeping giant, and the only noise in this oppressive chamber was Sam's slow breath, and the harsh whistling of the winter's wind against the window. But the abyssal stillness broke when he heard the latch to the door slide open with a _clunk_ and the door itself creek open, followed by two pairs of footsteps.

"_Probably Maester Wolkan, again. Another injured trench digger." _Sam thought, not bothering to crane his neck around to check on the intrusion. The footsteps grew closer, past the shelf where Wolkan kept his medicinal ointments, and then someone feminine cleared her throat behind him. Sam turned to look over his shoulder, spotting a vibrant white fur garb piercing the darkness, and a familiar looking face occupying the body in the garb. It was Daenerys Targaryen.

"Oh!" Sam gasped, quickly jolting to his feet, causing stars to dance around the corners of his vision. He spun around, hands at his side, and bowed his head before her. "Your grace." He greeted, frightened by this sudden encounter that he'd been totally unprepared for. There was a man in dark armour and a fur cloak standing guard beside her, a tall, blonde familiar man. Jorah Mormont, the man he had cured of greyscale.

"So you're the man." Said Daenerys, a friendly smile on her face, contrasting her cold authoritative eyes. Sam kept his own eyes lowered, not daring to meet her gaze.

"I'm wh-which man, your grace?" He stammered, unable to comprehend what the dragon queen would want with him.

"The one who saved Ser Jorah when no one else could." She answered, nodding at him. Jorah stepped forward.

"They could. They just wouldn't." The old knight added, his tone of approval clear. Sam couldn't help but smile with pride, seeing the result of his work. A man alive and well, rather than a doomed soul destined to be a stoneman of Old Valyria.

"I'll have to make some changes in the Citadel when I take my throne." Said the dragon queen, stepping closer to him, attempting to meet his eyes with her own. "A great service merits a great reward."

"Oh no, it's my honour to serve, your grace." Sam replied, trying to appear humble before his queen, her smile grew at this answer as he met her gaze.

"There must be something I could give you." She insisted. This kicked Sam's mind back into gear, and he tried to put the words of his desires together.

"Well. If it's not too much trouble, I could use a pardon." Confessed Sam. Dany's face turned glum, her eyes opening from a happy squint to a worried stare.

"For what crime?" She asked, confused, finding it hard to believe that such a humble and morally upstanding man would be in need of a royal pardon.

"Um..." Sam paused. "I... _Borrowed _a few books from the Citadel." He admitted, looking over to Ser Jorah who seemed to brush off the confession. Daenerys also seemed to take the matter pretty lightly. "And also a sword." He finished.

"From the Citadel?" She inquired.

"From my family." Sam corrected himself. Dany raised her head and nodded, awaiting the context of this crime of his. "It's been in House Tarly for generations, and it would have been my inheritance eventually." The silver haired queen's smile faded, and she looked at him with concern. "My father had other ideas."

"Lord Randyll Tarly?" Asked Daenerys after a pause. Sam parted his lips.

"You know him?" Sam responded, looking at the two with confusion, as Dany and Jorah exchanged worried glances. She took a deep, shaky breath.

"I offered to let him keep his lands and titles if he bent the knee." Stated Daenerys, trying to keep a straight face. Sam's lip twitched, his body filling with anxiety and stress. "He refused." Sam's bottom lip curled up, frowning and twitching, Sam's eyes widened, and his heart sank. Jorah lowered his gaze to the floor, and Sam was left shaking, his emotions flaring to life inside him, anger, rage, sadness, and mourning built up from his belly to the back of his throat, ready to explode out of him. He could do nothing but shake and twitch, as he gathered his words. Randyll was a terrible man, but he was family.

"At... At l-least I'll be allowed home..." He stuttered, trying his best to keep composure. "Now that my brother is the lord." He shut his lips quickly before anything that might offend her escape. Dany looked down to the floor and closed her eyes for a moment, her face scrunching together before relaxing. She shook her head and returned her gaze to Sam.

"Your brother stood with your father." She stated, her soft emotions perfectly concealed in her blank, unsympathetic expression, and cold, monotone voice. Sam's face froze with his body, and he stood as still as a marble statue while his thoughts and feelings created a furious storm within his body. No words ever transcribed by the wisest of men in the world could describe Sam's state, trapped in his own body, countless pieces of him fighting for control of his petrified form, to force his hand around her throat, to collapse in a heap and cry, to shout at the top of his lungs. None of the urges could overcome Sam's sudden paralysis. Twitches and involuntary mumbles managed to escape and manifest themselves in the physical world. No amount of strength could stop Sam's descent into a mumbling, sobbing, drooling, and twitching mess, and Jorah stepped forward and put himself between Daenerys and Samwell, not just out of concern for his queen and khaleesi, but also for Sam.

"Come." Jorah placed his hand on Sam's shoulder, passively tugging and coaxing him into following. Sam came along, snot leaking from his nose, tears streaming down his face, and drool pooling out of the corner of his mouth. The mess of a man was lead out of the room with ease, like a horse being guided into a stable. Jorah kept Sam's body under his arm, taking him out of the Maester's chamber and letting Sam's legs take them to their destination. Jorah pushed open the door to a small stone cell containing a bed, a desk, and a wardrobe, Sam's family sword laid in it's scabbard on the desk. Jorah guided Sam into the room and shut the door behind them. The two sat at the edge of the bed, and Sam just couldn't hold it anymore. He grabbed onto Jorah's arm, thrust his face into Jorah's fur cloaked shoulder and cried. Horrible muffled screams of pain and loss filled the room, and the old knight sat there, rubbing Sam's back and embracing the Tarly boy like his father never did.


	10. Chapter 10

The night was cold and cloudy. The darkness seemed to swallow Winterfell whole, only the burning torches warding off the all encroaching black void. It was too dark to even see the mist of his own breath as Sam leaned against the railing overlooking the empty courtyard, almost as empty as Sam's mind, save for one fleeting thought. Justice. He'd killed a white walker, a threat of ice from the North. But what of the threat of fire from the South? This dragon queen, who murdered his father and brother. Sam contemplated stealing poison from the maester and slipping it into her drink, or simply jamming a dagger into her heart at the next available opportunity. But these thoughts slipped away as his eyes spotted movement in the courtyard. A chair bound boy, wheeling himself out into the light of the torches, eyes meeting Sam's. It was Bran. He sat there, clad in furs, staring unblinkingly at the mourning Tarly, waiting.

"Bran?" Sam muttered, his shivering causing his voice to shake. He made his way through the darkness towards the stairs, and descended slowly, careful not to trip and fall. His fat body waddled through the courtyard to meet the Three Eyed Raven. "What are you doing?" Sam asked.

"It's time to tell Jon the truth." Bran replied, his voice flat, and unaffected by the cold. Sam tilted his head, perplexed.

"Me?" He shook his head, adjusting his stance, foot crunching in the small coat of snow that had fallen since the sun set. "You're his brother. Shouldn't you tell him?"

"I'm not his brother." Stated Bran, his unblinking eyes dry from the cold air, but not irritated whatsoever. "He trusts you more than anyone. Now's the time."

* * *

Jon stepped back from the statue in front of him. The freshly lit candles illuminating the stone carved figure of Ned Stark, standing proudly, the Valyrian steel executioners sword Ice perfectly represented in the carving, stone blade resting next to the statue's feet, and Ned's hands grasped firmly around the grip. Jon remembered the last time he'd seen him those many years ago. The proud and honourable ruler of Winterfell, off to serve his king, never to return.

"_Hnnnng" _Whined Ghost, Jon's snow white direwolf sitting patiently beside him. Jon shuffled closer and rested his hand on Ghost's side, gently rustling his fur and absorbing the comforting warmth of his master's hand. A set of footsteps echoed throughout the crypts, hard thuds descending the stairs into the Stark family's sacred resting grounds. As the intruding figure rounded the corner, Jon recognized it's fat form, thought it's face was obscured by the shadows.

"What are you doing here?" Jon inquired, staring at Sam as he was illuminated by the candles. The tears that once rolled down Sam's face dried, but their streaks still visible.

"I know I'm not supposed to be down here but-"

"What's wrong?" Jon interrupted, noticing his dry tears. He left Ghost's side to come closer to Sam, concerned for his friend. Sam took a moment before looking to the stone floor and inhaling.

"I've got two important things to tell you." Sam started, looking back up at Jon, voice shaking nervously. "First is that Daenerys killed my father and brother. They were her prisoners and she executed them." Sam stated, his feeling frozen over like a lake. Jon's face turned from a look of concern to a look of shock, looking frantically around the room trying to summon up words. "She didn't tell you?"

"I'm so sorry." Jon responded in a barely audible whisper, his own feelings fluctuating up and down, unsure what he even feels. Sam nodded and averted his gaze, biting his lip and sucking air between his teeth.

"Would you have done it?" Sam asked shakily. Jon lowered his head and sighed.

"Sam. You know I've executed men who disobeyed me." He answered.

"But you've also spared men!" Sam retorted. "Thousands of wildlings who refused to kneel!"

"I wasn't a king." Jon said, head still lowered, and lips rolling together, unprepared to discuss such things.

"But you were." Sam shivered, sniffling and holding back another flood of tears. "You've always been."

"I gave up my crown, Sam." Jon reminded him, turning away and walking back to Ghost, patting him on the head reassuringly. "I bent the knee, I'm not King in the North anymore."

"I'm not talking about the King in the North, I'm talking about the King of the bloody Seven Kingdoms!" Sam asserted. Jon froze in place, hand on Ghost's head, confused. He turned around slowly, gazing at Sam, looking at him like he's talking nonsense. "Bran and I worked it out. I had a High Septon's diary, and Bran had..." Sam paused, slowly approaching his friend. "Whatever Bran has."

"What are you talking about?" Asked Jon, mind blank, fully focused on Sam's words.

"Your mother... Was Lyanna Stark." Sam revealed, surprised he didn't stumble over the words. Jon chuckled, shaking his head. "And your father. Your real father. Was Rhaegar Targaryen." Jon's mild grin from his chuckling faded fast and turned into a frown. "You've never been a bastard. You're Aegon Targaryen. Heir to the Iron Throne." Jon's frown drooped even lower at these words, and his eyes widened into a glare. A few moments passed as he continued staring at Sam, chest expanding and contracting, mist forming from his breath. "I know it's a lot to take, but-" Jon suddenly charged and was on Sam as fast as lightning, tightly grasping the fabric of his clothes, teeth bared and eyebrows scrunched together.

"Are you on milk of the poppy!?" Jon shouted. "My father was the most honourable man I ever met!" He hissed. "And you're saying he lied to me all my life!?" Sam shook his head.

"Your fathe- erm, Ned Stark. He promised your mother he'd always protect you." Sam explained, wiping Jon's spittle off his face. "And he did. Robert would have murdered you if he knew." He finished, giving Jon a moment to calm down, which he did, loosening his grip and taking two slow, short steps backwards. "You're the true king." Sam proclaimed. "Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name, protector of the realm, all of it." Jon continued stepping back, panting like he'd just run a mile in armour, face paler than the moon.

"D-Daenerys is our queen." Jon stumbled, genuinely believing every word his friend said, but unsure of what to do.

"She shouldn't be." Sam raised his head proudly.

"But that's treason!" Jon wheezed, desperately wanting this all to be one big joke.

"It's the truth." Sam stated. "You gave up your crown to save your people. Would she do the same?"


	11. Chapter 11

It had been hours since the break of the morning sun. Jaime rode past the many refugee tents outside of Winterfell's castle, the once proud knight looked upon the people with purpose. Those poor, sick, and injured smallfolk, huddling around their fires and savouring their small rations of food. Their misery stabbed his heart. He'd always kept a concept of the people in his head, a non-specific blob of innocence and peace, something he had to defend. But seeing them here, suffering real ills, powerless to protect themselves, rekindled the fire in Jaime's heart, the fire that had faded on this long journey away from King's Landing, away from his love. He knew he made the right choice.

A set of eyes immediately met his gaze as he entered Winterfell, a blank, brown eyed stare of a fur-clad boy, bound to a chair. Years of memory flashed through Jaime's head, leading to that one moment nearly a decade ago, where he was a man that he no longer recognized, seeing the boy's face, but younger, staring at him from outside a tower window as he fornicated with Cersei. A chill ascended Jaime's spine, the motions of his push replaying in his muscles, the push that threw this boy from the tower, and cripple him on the ground. The Lannister averted his gaze, his breath shaking, the consequences of his action sitting a few yards away. He slipped off his horse and onto the soft dirt ground, then walked to the centre of the courtyard, slipping the glove off his golden hand, and raising it high above himself.

"I am Jaime Lannister!"

* * *

Jaime stood before the court, arms bound behind his back, guards standing either side of him in this cold stone room. Daenerys sat behind an ancient wooden table in front of him, her eyes unblinking, piercing his soul. Jon Snow sat beside her, his gaze glossed over by thought, and his face as blank as a corpse. Sansa was seated at the edge of the long table, Brienne standing guard behind her, eyes meeting Jaime's on occasion, her stone cold expression failing to hide her concern for him.

"When I was a child, my brother would tell me a bedtime story." Daenerys began, her voice breaking the pin-drop silence of the court. "About the man who murdered our father." Jaime tried to maintain a neutral expression, but a twinge of fear and shame made him twitch ever so slightly. "Who stabbed him in the back, and cut his throat. Who sat down on the iron throne and watched as his blood poured onto the floor." She bit her lip, keeping composure, not letting the rage that had boiled within her for years escape. Jaime lowered his eyes, nodding along meekly. "He told me other stories as well. About all the things we would do to that man, once we took back the Seven Kingdoms and had him in our grasp." He rolled his lips together and kept his eyes shut, awaiting the right time to speak. "Your sister pledged to send her army North."

"She did." Stated Jaime, looking back up to the dragon queen, a frown strewn across his face.

"I don't see an army." Daenerys scoffed. "I just see one man with one hand. It appears your sister lied to me." She hissed, her rage boiling and churning inside of her. Jaime nodded his head.

"She lied to me as well." Jaime said, straightening his posture back up and speaking with power. "She never had any intention on sending her army North." He saw as Dany's face slowly took on a shade of pink, her feelings clear to the world. "She has Euron Greyjoy's fleet, and twenty-thousand fresh troops. The Golden Company from Essos. Bought and paid for." He revealed, watching as the silver haired queen dipped her head down momentarily, her heart sinking and shattering. Her beloved dragon Viserion, her child, killed for nothing. "Even if we defeat the dead, she'll have more than enough to destroy the survivors."

"We!?" Daenerys spat.

"I promised to fight for the living. I intend to keep that promise." Jaime stated, keeping his chin high, looking Daenerys right in the eyes. But before she could reply, Tyrion emerged from the crowd.

"Your grace! I know my brother-"

"Like you knew your sister!?" She interrupted her hand, redirecting her soul piercing glare to Tyrion.

"He came here alone, knowing full well how he'll be received." Tyrion explained. "Why would he do that if he weren't telling the truth?" Daenerys chuckled and shook her head.

"Perhaps he trusts his little brother to defend him." She implied, her face growing more flushed every moment that passed. "Right up to the moment he slits my throat!" The court went silent again, and Tyrion stood with his mouth agape, trying desperately to conjure the words to save his brother's life.

"You're right. We can't trust him." Sansa added, all eyes turning to her. "He attacked my father in the streets, he tried to destroy my house and my family, the same as he did yours."

"Do you want me to apologize?" Jaime scoffed, his head tilted, sneering at Sansa. "I wont." He admitted. "We were at war! Everything I did, I did for my house and my family, and I'd do it all again!"

"The things we do for love." Bran added from the audience, instantly silencing Jaime, his face dropping the defiant look, and turning pale like he'd seen a ghost. Bran's words echoing the very same phrase Jaime used before pushing the Stark boy from atop the tower.

"So why have you abandoned your house and family now?" Dany asked, leaning back in her chair, taking deep breaths, her red face dampening slowly. Jaime looked back to the dragon queen, summoning his courage once again.

"This goes beyond loyalty." He grit his teeth, raising his head high with defiance. "I killed your father because he gave me an ultimatum!" Jaime growled, stepping forward, but being pulled back by the guards standing to his sides. "It was either uphold my oath to the crown, or uphold my oath to protect the innocent!" He glared at Daenerys, his passion welling tears in his eyes. "I chose the innocent!" Pausing for a moment to take a breath, he sighed. "That's why I left Cersei. She chose her own power over the lives of the innocent. Just like your father." Jaime finished, continuing his glare into the dragon queen's eyes, who squeezed on the arms of her chair, face churning with emotion. Daenerys drew a breath to respond, but was quickly interrupted by Brienne bolting out from behind Sansa and standing beside Jaime, head high and face distressed.

"Your grace, I know Ser Jaime!" Brienne sputtered, standing between the Lannister and the Targaryen. "He is a man of honour." She stated proudly. "I was his captor once. But when we were both taken prisoner, and the men holding us tried to force themselves on me, Ser Jaime defended me." She recounted, face hardening into neutrality again. "And lost his hand because of it." Brienne turned to face Sansa. "Without him, my lady, you would not be alive. He armed me, armoured me, and sent me to find you, and bring you back home." Sansa's lips parted, her trust in Brienne moving her. "Because he'd sworn an oath to your mother." She finished, letting the moments pass as Sansa averted her eyes, the truth of the past few years finally making sense to her.

"You vouch for him?" Asked Sansa, returning her look to Brienne.

"I do." Brienne affirmed. A wave of relief and gratitude washed through Jaime's body.

"You would fight beside him?" Sansa asked.

"I would." Brienne reaffirmed.

"I trust you with my life." Sansa stated. "If you trust him with yours, we should let him stay." She declared, nodding to Brienne and lowering her head, faith in Brienne overpowering her hatred of the Lannisters. Daenerys frowned at Sansa, no words on her tongue, just a foul taste. Brienne bowed and returned to her place at Sansa's side.

"What does the warden of the North say about it?" Dany asked Jon, looking down at the table and examining all the age old marks, scratches and chips. Jon took a moment, looking at Jaime, then to Tyrion, and then to Sansa and Brienne.

"We need every man we can get." Jon answered, watching Dany subtly squirm in revulsion. She looked up at Jaime, biting her lip harder and furrowing her brow.

"Just so you know, Ser Jaime Lannister..." Daenerys leered at him. "I am not my father." She said, letting her sore lip escape her teeth. "I suppose I must accept that you're not your sister." Dany sighed, slumping back in her chair. "You can stay." Jaime and Tyrion both let out a sigh of relief as the guards unshackled Jaime's arms and dropped the chains to the floor.


	12. Chapter 12

_The warm sun shewn into the stone halls of the Red Keep, illuminating Cersei's bedroom through the lavender silk curtains which flowed freely in the lovely morning breeze, bringing in the scent of the salty sea. Cersei laid snugly under the blankets, covering her from her feet to her belly, where her head, shoulders, and breasts were uncovered, and a little newborn baby rested on her chest, wrapped in a little blue blanket, suckling from her breast. Jaime lay in bed besides Cersei, eyes fixated on the infant, his son, stroking his thin head of golden hair, a warm smile strewn across his face, matching his sister's own smile._

"_He's perfect." Cersei whispered softly, cradling the cooing newborn and watching as it's little body rose and fell as her chest grew and shrunk with every breath. Jaime looked up at his sister, the loving, fatherly smile he had slowly faded, and he blinked, and his eyes no longer bright, his lips rolled together and frowned, eyelids growing wide, and brow lowering. He glared at Cersei, and suddenly the room's warmth started to make way for an icy cold that crept in through the windows, along the floor, and into her bones._

"_Hmph." Jaime grunted, throwing the blankets off of himself, and in a flash was clad in his suit of red and gold lion armour, the sword Widow's Wail at his side. He scooted off the side of the bed and stood, looking back at Cersei, a scowl overtaking his face as he looked down upon her. She gripped their son and brought him under the blankets away from this intrusive cold, then looked on in sorrow as Jaime turned away and stomped towards the door, kicking it open without care, and storming out of the room. As soon as her brother disappeared into the halls, the sun fell rapidly, but the moon never rose, leaving the queen in utter darkness, her nose and fingers as cold as ice as she desperately covered herself, shivering and rubbing her hands together._

"_Jaime?" She called, her voice echoing unnaturally through the thick black abyss that surrounded her. She instantly regretted opening her mouth, as a cacophony of growls, snarls, shrieks, and screams pierced her eardrums, the noise was loud and terrifying, it bore down on Cersei from all directions, and the little baby started to cry. Footsteps of many bodies came charging towards her, vulnerable in her bed. The stench of death filled her nostrils, that of rot and decay, and the screeching mass of horrible monsters was upon her! Cersei screamed and held her wailing child tightly as the covers were ripped off of her, exposing her body to the frosty air, and then sharp, bony fingers clawed and grasped at her sensitive flesh. Their icy grip tore at her arms, reaching hungrily for the vulnerable baby! Cersei cried her brother's name over and over again as these creatures bit, scratched and pulled her body apart, the baby being pulled from her grasp, it's wailing intensifying for a few moments before being snuffed into silence. "Jaime! Jaime! Jaime!" She shrieked. The pain of her mutilation dulled, so did the cacophony of the dead, so did her dream, and the world reformed itself around her._

* * *

Cersei jolted upwards in a panicked sweat! She scanned the room as if she was still dreaming, still in a numb daze from her deep sleep. She panted profusely, confused and delirious, but her room was as bright as day, and chilled from the cold winter air outside, very different from the queen's bed, which was warmed with hot coals the night before.

"Damned milk of the poppy..." Cersei sighed, blaming her ordeal on the pain numbing medicine given to her last night by Qyburn. The pain in her belly was no more. An acute stomach ache as Qyburn had diagnosed it seems. But when Cersei tried to slide out of bed, her leg trailed across a gross, warm, slimy substance soaked into her sheets. Perplexed, she threw the covers off, and beheld a terrible sight. There was a thick, bloody, gelatinous mass sitting between her legs. Cersei winced and tried to pull away in disgust, but the bloody, puss-covered mess followed her, and that was when she felt it. Strands of tissue connected to the blob from inside her vagina. She let panic overtake her, and violently flung herself out of bed, collapsing on the cold stone floor, the strands of tissue breaking away from her, leaving the mass on her bed. Cersei sprung upward, getting her body away from the icy touch of the floor, and slipping her feet into a fuzzy set of slippers. She looked at the pink and red blob once more and felt a cold sweat form at the back of her neck. She quickly threw on her bed robe and swung the door open to the halls of the Red Keep, stumbling out in a fit.

"My queen!" Exclaimed one of her guards, clad in armour of black and silver. Cersei met his gaze with wide, crazed eyes.

"Bring Qyburn to me now!" She barked, the guard immediately complying and sprinting down the hallway. Cersei dared not look back into her room, she shivered fearfully, looking over to Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, standing in the same position as he has been since last night, watching protectively over his queen. She moved closer to him, her most loyal Queensguard knight, as if he could somehow protect her from what she feared most.

What was in reality a couple of minutes felt like hours for Cersei. She quivered and trembled like a little girl, almost succumbing to her childish desire to cower behind the Mountain and hold onto him tightly. Soon enough, Qyburn turned the corner with the guard she had sent, and both of them scurried towards the quivering queen.

"Is there something wrong, your grace!?" Qyburn asked in a fit, his wrinkled face warped with concern. Cersei meekly pointed into her chambers, finger twitching in apprehension.

"P-please don't let it be true." Cersei stammered, following the grandmaester into the room and urging him to inspect the horrific blob of tissue that slid from her innards in her sleep. He leaned over the bed and slipped his bag of tools off his shoulder, reaching his weathered fingers within and removing a pair of tweezers. Qyburn lowered himself to one knee and inspected the bloody mass, poking and prodding it with the tweezers, pulling it apart, separating layers of flesh with sickening squelches, and there he spotted something that made his face go white.

"Umm. Your grace..." He mumbled, reaching his hand out into the pile of slime and grabbing something between his fingers. "I-I'm afraid you've..." Qyburn paused, unable to speak as he pulled out a tiny pink fetus, barely the size of his thumb. Cersei's heart sank and she immediately fell to her knees, tears welling up and freely flowing from her squinting eyes. Her anguish filled her body, from the heart outwards, and she buried her face in the sheets. "Miscarried." Qyburn stated as the chambers and the halls and the entire Red Keep filled with the wails of Cersei's broken heart, and the endless, maddened calls for her love.

"Jaime! Jaime! Jaime!"


	13. Chapter 13

"Send every raven we have to inform the surrounding holds of Cersei Lannister's treachery." Jon ordered Maester Wolkan, panting from the run into the chambers from the court. "Tell them to spread the word and flee South, across the narrow sea if they can." The Maester nodding his head and rushed over to the pile of blank raven scrolls, dipping his quill in the ink to begin writing. "And once you're finished, gather all the non-combatants and flee." Jon finished, Maester Wolkan met his gaze momentarily, mouth agape and his eyes started to wander.

"Y-yes my lord." Wolkan nodded and began stroking his quill upon the scrolls, the smooth motions of his cursive writing swiftly danced across the parchment. A light knock on the wooden door made Jon glance over his shoulder as he caught his breath.

"Bring most of the food with you, too." Jon added, turning around and walking over to the door, swinging it inwards, revealing Bran sitting in his wheelchair on the other side. He spoke before Jon could even greet him.

"I'm staying." Bran stated, staring blankly up at Jon, who cocked his head in confusion.

"How did you..." Jon trailed off, shaking his head and wincing. "What do you mean you're staying?"

"The Night King intends to destroy this world." Bran muttered, blank eyes staring off into the distance. "I am this world's past, present, and future. Events have been set in motion by my hand all throughout time." He turned his empty gaze to Jon, who returned his look with that of bewilderment. "The world cannot truly die so long as I live. So I have been marked." Bran rolled up his thick sleeve, showing the dark purple mark of the Night King's grasp on his pale forearm.

"What is that!?" Jon hissed, closing in on Bran and examining the mark with concern.

"He has touched me." Stated Bran. "The Night King knows where I am at all times. Nothing can stand between him and I for very long. I have seen it."

"Don't say that." Jon replied, shaking his head and grasping Bran's hand tightly. "As long as I draw breath, I will be there to protect you!"

"You won't draw breath." The Three Eyed Raven uttered eerily. "I have seen many futures. Most of them leave this world frozen and dead. Some of them allow this world to continue on." Bran paused, curling his lips and looking deeply into Jon's eyes. "But none of them allow me to live."

"Listen. I don't quite understand whatever power you possess, but surely you must be overlooking something. I can't just let you stay here, Bran." Jon lowered himself to one knee as if proposing to a loved one, his face drooped and despaired.

"I've lived many lives, _Jon Snow_." He stated coldly. "In which I have accumulated more knowledge and insight than the greatest sages could ever hope to attain." Bran squeezed Jon's hand back and leaned forward, keeping his eyes locked into Jon's. "And I know that if I evacuate Winterfell, the dead will ignore your fortifications, and simply pass by the castle to pursue me, endangering the fleeing innocents." Jon lowered his head, trying to hold his ground, but the realization slipped out of his mind and formed tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry. This is the only way."


	14. Chapter 14

It was another cold morning in Winterfell. Gendry stood at his work bench, shivering occasionally as he mounted the dragon glass axe heads onto their wooden hafts. The forges lay dark and cold, all the pins, nails, and hatches having been made, and all their iron and steel used up. Most of the people in Winterfell were being herded up to head South down the Kingsroad away from the site of the battle now that it was clear the armies of the Crownlands were not marching North. The blacksmiths had been conscripted to defend Winterfell instead of fleeing with the rest of the commonfolk. Their strong arms and experience swinging heavy objects is now more needed than ever. Not that Gendry was complaining, of course. It was always in his head that he'd stand and fight just like he did North of the wall.

"You done my staff, yet?" Came a familiar voice, making Gendry jump. He looked up from his work at Arya Stark, standing with her chin high, hands tucked behind her, a cheeky little smile across her face. Gendry chuckled.

"I'll get to it just as soon as I'm done another thousand of these." Gendry answered, picking up a dragon glass axe just like the one he made for the Hound. Arya inspected the little axe and laughed, taking it in her hands and wheeling it around over her shoulder, throwing it with more power than Gendry thought such a small girl could muster. The axe head stuck into a wooden post with a _thunk_, scaring the daylights out of a craftsman who was leaning up against it.

"They seem strong enough." Arya remarked, turning back to Gendry who looked at the axe in the post, quite impressed with the throw.

"So I take it you're going to be fighting?" He said, trotting over to the axe and wiggling the handle up and down until the dragon glass blade came loose.

"Yup. I heard you got drafted, as well." She replied, tilting her head and giving Gendry a smile. "You nervous?"

"A bit." Gendry admitted, going back to hammering rivets into the unfinished spears. "I did some fighting against these dead men not long ago."

"You fought the dead men?" She inquisitively prodded, leaning against the workbench and trying to look Gendry in the eye.

"Mmhmm." He mumbled, picking up a spear and tapping the dragon glass tip against the wall.

"What were they like?" Came Arya.

"Terrifying." He grumbled, trying not to dwell on the flashes of gnashing teeth and deathly howls in his mind. Arya rolled her eyes.

"Oh come on. You can do better than that!" She taunted, a hint of playfulness in her voice. "What do they look like? What do they smell like? How do they move? How hard are they to kill?" Arya asked giddily like a child, a her face stretched with an excited toothy smile.

"Look, I know you're looking to fight, and you think you're not afraid of anything." Gendry leaned towards her, looking her in the eyes. "This is different from sticking a sword into a raper's belly. This is death." He paused. "You wanna know what they're like? Death. That's what they're like." Arya scoffed.

"I know death. He has many faces." She stated, staring Gendry in the eyes, dismissing his air of caution. "I look forward to seeing this one."

* * *

Jaime leaned against the cold stone wall, the frosty air biting his lungs with every breath. He used his one good hand to keep his thick cloak wrapped tightly around his body. Decades of service in King's Landing had left him completely unsuited to such harsh winters. He looked through the open gate, watching all the common folk packing up and heading South as commanded by Jon Snow. No doubt many of them would freeze, starve, or succumb to illness on their journey. His heart twinged with sorrow at their helpless despair, and he scowled at the thought of Cersei betraying her word, how her self-centred strategy could cost the lives of millions. As a sister, and a lover, Jaime could ask for no better woman, but as a person... He just wished she could see the bigger picture.

The kingslayer spotted a short hooded figure waddling out from the dark entrance to Winterfell keep, a bag over his shoulder, the hand of the queen's pin on his coat. Jaime casually walked into his path and looked down at him with a smile.

"I suppose your queen has ordered you to join the retreat?" Jaime assumed. Tyrion looked up at him, the scarred face hidden by his thick beard and cloak. The dwarf pulled down his hood and nodded.

"_Our_ queen. Odd, really." Tyrion remarked. "After all the ear fulls of failure, inadequacy, and threats, she told me that I am far more useful alive." He began strolling alongside his big brother towards the castle gate. "That girl from Narth, Missandei is close friends with Daenerys Stormborn." Tyrion stated. "I spoke with her not long after your session in court."

"About?" Jaime asked, looking over his shoulder for any signs of Varys or his little birds.

"I told her I was worried for my own safety. That Queen Daenerys was going to take Cersei's betrayal out on me, since I had already made poor strategic decisions in the recent past." He explained, voice unshaken, which surprised Jaime. "Missandei said that Daenerys wears her harsh, cold demeanour like armour so that her enemies can't take advantage of her true self, which she describes as soft and gentle."

"Soft and gentle? I'm meant to believe the woman who burns men alive is soft and gentle?" Jaime scoffed, shaking his head and sighing, remembering the Goldroad, where his men's armour melted off their shoulders, and who's bodies burned to ash before him from the dragon fire.

"Apparently she weeps for them. That she only shows her softer side when in private with the ones she trusts most, like Missandei of Narth and Jorah Mormont." Tyrion paused for a moment. "I've seen her deeds across the Narrow Sea. Her enemies suffer immensely, but her love for the innocent people in the world sets her apart from the average ruler. She's like you in that regard."

"Pff." Jaime chuckled. "Even if this is true, I'm not here to serve her. She's not my queen." The two walked through the open gate onto the road, refugees and labourers nearly bumping shoulders with the two brothers. Tyrion grabbed Jaime by the cloak.

"Shh! I wouldn't say things like that here!" He looked up at Jaime with concern, whipping his head around looking for soldiers, but none were visible. "Maybe you view her as such yet. But you've already committed desertion for her sake."

"For the realm's sake." Jaime corrected, standing aside the road away from the crowd of people. "I suppose we might not see each other again."

"That's twice you've said that." Tyrion said. Jaime nodded with a frown across his face. "Hopefully not the last time."

"Those things. The dead men. If what they say is true, and there are hundreds of thousands of them..." Jaime paused, a chill running up his spine. "I don't think I'll be walking away from this one."

"I've thought about it. Fighting alongside you. The last heirs of Casterly Rock, dying in a fight to defend Winterfell of all places." Tyrion laughed and shook his head. "Father would have a stroke." The two shared the laugh, though Jaime's seemed a little less hearty, not fully forgiving his little brother for Tywin's death.

"Well. You must live on to serve the realm after this mess is dealt with." Jaime stated. "You're mind is of no use if you're dead."

"With my performance as hand of the queen, I've come to believe that killing a few dead men and then dying myself would be a better service than continuing to live." Tyrion admitted.

"From all accounts I've heard, you did tremendously as hand of the king in father's stead." Jaime rebuked shaking his head, finding Tyrion's defeatism quite unbelievable.

"Perhaps then." He sighed, looking down at his feet. "I've never quite been the same since that night you released me." Tyrion explained, nodding and curling his lips, eyes squeezed shut. "If you fall in battle, then I will have nothing. Nobody else has ever loved me. All of it was goat shit... I realized that after..." Tyrion trailed off for a moment. "I realized that after Shae told her lies at my trial. Nobody has ever loved me aside from you, Jaime. Without you, I'd have nothing." Jaime was silent for several moments, eyes darting back and forth, and a cold sweat forming on his brow.

"That's not true." Jaime replied shakily.

"Of course it is. Why do you think I drown myself in drink? Without you, I'd have no connection to the world, and no reason to go on." Tyrion took the leather canteen of wine off his belt and took a sip.

"No I mean..." Jaime backed away and looked Tyrion in the eye. "About nobody loving you apart from me as a brother. That's not true." Tyrion rolled his eyes.

"Oh come on, Jaime. Think! You know how father felt about me, you know our sister has always hated me, I never knew mother, and the other Lannisters always avoided me." Tyrion scoffed. "And Shae? Lover of gold, betrayed me when all I wanted was to ensure her safety. Tysha? My first wife? Whore. But you know that." Tyrion ranted. Jaime's lip quivered.

"Tysha..." Jaime muttered.

"Yes. Tysha. The whore you hired." Tyrion pouted.

"Sh-she wasn't a whore." Jaime sighed, his heart sinking as Tyrion's face shifted.

"What are you talking about?" Tyrion lifted his head and glared Jaime in the eye.

"Listen." Jaime knelt down to speak with his brother face to face. "I should have told you this before. But I just couldn't bring myself to do it..." He awaited Tyrion's response, but nothing came. "I didn't hire Tysha. She wasn't a whore... That was... That was just something that father made me say." Jaime admitted. Tyrion was as silent and still as the grave. "That night those rapers attacked. That was real. Tysha falling in love with you. That was real. Your marriage. That was real, too." Tyrion took a slow step back, face twitching.

"Wh- what?"

"When father found out that you, a Lannister, had married a lowborn girl... Well... He was furious." Jaime explained, a tear rolling down his face. "He ordered his guards to seize her, and that's when he had her raped in front of you." No tears flowed from Tyrion, just a ghostly pale face. "He hounded me for days to lie to you, to say I hired her to make you a man. And well... I obeyed him." Many moments passed silently, the wind ruffled Jaime's hair and threatened to freeze his tears, but Tyrion looked as if he'd seen a ghost. The dwarf stumbled backwards, turning towards Winterfell and striding to the castle wall, unleashing a furious punch against the stone bricks, followed by a horrible crack. The punch was so hard that Jaime genuinely couldn't tell if it was Tyrion's bones that cracked, the stone wall, or both.

"Tyrion..." Jaime rushed towards him. "You had love. It was real! She might still be out the-"

"Get away from me!" Tyrion scowled, a hellish glare piercing his brother, his teeth bared.

"Y-your hand, though." Jaime looked at it with concern, trying to reach for it, but Tyrion pulled away.

"Don't touch me!" Tyrion stepped away from his brother, growling at his mere presence. "If there's any life I value less than my own right now, it would be yours!" He turned his back and stomped away, not bothering waiting for his carriage. Jaime watched with tearful eyes as his little brother made his way South on the King's Road on foot along with the smallfolk.


	15. Chapter 15

There he was. The Stark boy. Sitting in his wheelchair before the weirwood tree in the godswood of Winterfell. Jaime felt a knot in his throat as he stepped closer, remembering the innocent look on the boy's face just moments before he pushed him out of the tower. As much as he tried to rationalize it in his head over the years, the act had always haunted the kingslayer in his dreams. That year as Robb Stark's prisoner of war was difficult for Jaime. Constantly locked and shacked in a cage, looking at Bran's family, who had no idea it was he that threw the boy from the tower. On the worst days, he remembers the temptation to tell Catelyn the truth. To fill her with such rage that she would kill him, and end his torturous captivity... But that was a long time ago, and Jaime was a different man.

"I'm sorry for what I did to you." Jaime finally admitted after a long stretch of silence, the knot in his throat strangling his breath. Another stretch of silence followed before Bran turned his head towards the Lannister.

"You weren't sorry then." Replied the Three Eyed Raven in his expressionless monotone voice. Jaime bowed his head, lips curled in shame. "You were protecting your family." Bran stated. Jaime walked around the front of the wheelchair bound boy, his footsteps crunching snow in the silent, still air.

"I'm not that person anymore." He assured, his heart tearing in two.

"You would be had you not pushed me out that window." Bran paused and looked into the carved face of the weirwood tree. "And I would still be Brandon Stark." The kingslayer cocked his head in confusion.

"You're not?" He asked, eyes in a slit, tears still frozen to his face from the falling out with his little brother.

"I'm something else now." Answered the Three Eyed Raven, returning his gaze to Jaime.

"You're not angry at me?" Jaime held back a sob.

"You said it just as well as I could. You're not that person anymore." He sighed through his nose, glancing up at the white sky. "Blaming you for the crippling of Brandon Stark would be an injustice. You've suffered enough." He finished, looking down at the kingslayer's golden hand.

"When you said... What you said in court." Jaime hid the golden lie behind his cloak. "I thought you were going to tell them about what I did to you."

"If I did, you'd be dead right now." Bran stated. "Your purpose is to fight for life, not to die in order to satisfy the Stark family's lust for revenge."

"What about afterwards?" Jaime asked.

"How do you know there is an afterwards?"

* * *

The final defences were set. The trenches dug deep and wide, the spiked barriers placed evenly behind the trenches, and the trebuchets fully assembled behind the walls. It was said before that five hundred men could hold Winterfell against ten thousand. But with these new fortifications, and the alleged tactical ineptitude of the enemy, Brienne was confident that this army of thirty-eight thousand could hold Winterfell against the estimated one hundred and fifty thousand dead men. With the Targaryen's two dragons, the big woman could breath easily as she watched Podrick sparring with other combatants. The former squire now an excellent warrior thanks to Brienne's lessons. She watched with pride as Podrick caught an incoming sword against his own, allowing it to slide down and stop at the cross guard above his hand, following up by grabbing his opponent's blade and poking him with his own blunt training sword. She was so preoccupied with watching Podrick that she didn't notice Jaime standing beside her.

"Oh! Ser Jaime." She greeted, nodding to the frowning knight.

"Lady Brienne." He returned, watching Podrick as well, seeing him beat aside an incoming blow and allowing his sparring partner to run straight into his rounded, blunt sword. "He's come a long way." Jaime commented with a sniffle.

"He's alright. Still has a lot to learn." Replied Brienne, pacing around the training field in front of the castle with the kingslayer in tow.

"I'm told your commanding the left corner of the battlements." Said Jaime, seeing the big woman nod.

"Indeed." She affirmed, causing Jaime to sigh.

"That's where the trench ends." He looked over his shoulder at the left corner of the castle's front, the wide trench curving in against the stone walls, leaving the corner exposed. "The dead's assault is going to be at it's worst in those corners."

"You worried about me?" She scoffed and shook her head with a smile.

"I couldn't have picked a better person for the job." He remarked.

"What are you trying to do?" Brienne inquisitively drilled. Jaime's mouth hung open for a moment.

"What?" He mumbled.

"I think you know." She spat back, staring at Jaime in his silence. "We've never had a conversation this long without you insulting me."

"You want me to insult you?" Jaime cocked his head.

"No!" Brienne scoffed.

"Good." He took a few slow breaths, averting his eyes and forming his words. "I-I'm not quite the fighter I used to be." He stuttered, sighing in his unfortunately true admission. "I came to you to ask for the honour of serving under your command." Jaime paused. "If you'll have me." He quickly added, turning his head away and pressing his lips together, taking a few deep breaths. Brienne just stared at him slack jawed for a few moments.

"I'd better get back." She softly spoke, her facial expression reeking of surprise and conflict. Brienne turned away from Jaime and made her way back towards the castle, leaving Jaime and his frozen tears out in the cold, without an answer.


	16. Chapter 16

"He what?" Daenerys gasped, standing before Grey Worm, who nodded. Dany sighed and shook her head, bright silver hair reflecting the light of the fire inside Winterfell keep. "Send a blood rider South along the Kingsroad. Order him to find Tyrion Lannister, and escort him back to the guarded carriage at once." The dragon queen ordered, her voice shrill and irritated. Grey Worm responded with a bow before marching out of the dim room, closing the door behind him, and leaving Daenerys alone in the stone room. Sighing, she slumped back into a rotting wooden chair, thinking to herself, "_What possessed my fool of a hand to run off on his own?"_

"Urgent news, your grace!" Came a voice from outside the door, combined with a series of hard knocks.

"You may enter." She replied, standing again and straightening her posture, and keeping her chin high. The door swung open, revealing an obese man clad in plate armour, Lord Yohn Royce of the Vale, an unsullied soldier on either side of him.

"Apologies for the intrusion, my queen, but Theon Greyjoy has returned." The fat knight announced, prompting Dany to crack a smile.

"Excellent. I must speak with him." She answered. The fat knight bowed, turned and left the room with the dragon queen in tow, the loyal unsullied maintaining their position between their queen and the obese man with each step. She was followed by two more unsullied, keeping her guarded on all sides. The group entered the stone courtroom, the pale daylight shone through coldly on the faces of everyone within. In the middle of the room stood Theon Greyjoy and his sister Yara, both scruffy and greasy from their long travel. The two immediately fell to one knee upon seeing their queen.

"My queen." Theon humbly greeted, head bowed before Daenerys. Yara's head only slightly tilted downwards, still too proud to willingly submit to anyone, even the dragon queen. The Ironborn woman stood back up, stretching her back and neck, looking to the ceiling as if she'd been bent over for a long time. Theon followed suit and stood.

"We only have a few ships." Yara stated, hands on her hips, leaning to the side casually. "We docked em' in White Harbor. An escape route for your men... Well. A third of your men should the fight against these _dead men _go bad." She explained, clearly scoffing and not taking the threat at all seriously. Dany ignored Yara's obvious lack of formality. "We've got a few dozen fighting men with us, as well."

"One third of our men?" Daenerys curled her lips, sneering to herself. "I suppose the rest would have to march the entire way to King's Landing, should we retreat." She sighed, disappointed in her lack of resources.

"We could have... Commandeered more ships. But as you said. No more reaving, roving, raiding, or raping." Yara smirked, eyes wandering around the cracks in the ceiling.

"Considering the well being of others is often the biggest obstacle to power." The dragon queen sighed once more, looking over her shoulder and spotting Sansa standing in the corner, eyes locked on Theon, a look of longing, and apprehension strewn across her pale face. She along with other Northern rulers chose to stay in Winterfell to keep the morale of their men stable. "What is your opinion on the matter, Lady Stark?" Daenerys asked, seemingly jolting Sansa into attention.

"After all this..." Sansa paused, blinking a few times, lip quivering slightly. "Why did you come back, Theon?" She questioned, and Theon looked her in the eyes with the most pride he's had since before Ramsay.

"I've come to fight for Winterfell." Theon stated, weak chin now high in the air, no nervous twitches or shuddering. "If you'll have me, Sansa." The two shared a moment of eye contact before Sansa could stand it no longer. A tear escaped her eye and she sputtered in joy, rushing over to the Greyjoy and embracing him in a loving hug.

* * *

Hundreds of pale, greasy, sweaty men piled into the Winterfell courtyard, sitting on the cold, frosty ground, shivering while slurping down hot soup, wiping snow from their matted hair and their shoulders as it constantly fell. Ser Davos and some other men stood inside a market stand, a roaring fire boiling the soup in a dark iron cauldron. The line of men waiting to be served their rations seemed to go on forever, but Davos continued to fill their bowls regardless.

"We're not soldiers, ser!" Exclaimed a dirty muscular peasant as his soup was being poured.

"You are now." Davos replied, his flea bottom accent nearly overwhelmed by the sheer noise of the Northerners. The peasant just looked at him with defeat, mouth open in despair. Davos leaned in. "Look. I made it through most of my years without ever getting near a fight." The onion knight explained, pouring into the bowl of the next man in line. "But then we survived the battle of the bastards. Right outside these walls." He cocked his head towards the solid stone walls. "If I can live through that, you can live through this." The man shuffled along, but still stuck around and looked at Davos with fear. "You're not going to be on the front lines facing a cavalry charge." Davos shook his head with a chuckle. "You're gonna be up on the battlements, twanging arrows into a crowd of bumbling idiots, tossing big rocks onto their heads, and poking them with spears if they try to climb." He explained, continuing his feeding duties. "You'll be fine."

"Th-thank you, milord." The man nodded before disappearing into the crowd, leaving Davos alone again to continue feeding these starving conscripts.


	17. Chapter 17

The raven flew through the harsh cold air, the wind burning it's eyes, and it's lungs aching with every breath as it beat it's wings strongly. The frozen, dead landscape of the winter ravaged North stretched onto the horizon in all directions around the lone raven. But the bird's singular goal approached closer and closer as it spied a lone tree at the top of a frosty hill, it's leaves long since fallen, and the bark mangled by the snow and wind. The raven perched on a branch and ruffled it's black feathers, trying to conserve what little warmth it had left. There would be no survival for the poor bird, but it stood proudly, watching the horizon to the North as dark shapes came into view. Minutes of suffering and shivering passed, and these dark shapes took form. Many disfigured, desiccated, and rotten humans marched South, their numbers were uncountable, and the legion of the dead was led by icy figures riding upon deceased horses, but at the very head of this army was it's leader, a cold, hard frozen humanoid, head sprouting sharp icicles like a crown, face sunken, and blue eyes locked onto the raven itself. The Night King knew. It reached it's pale, bony hands towards the warged bird, palm facing the sky, and spindly fingers hanging, as if it were offering to take Bran's hand. A feeling of unease filled the Three Eyed Raven's mind, the first feeling he had in a very long time. He swiftly exited the bird, leaving it to freeze and starve in the frozen wilderness many miles North. Bran's eyes rolled forward into place, and he blinked several times, letting his eyes get comfortable once more.

"They'll be here before dawn." Bran muttered, looking up into the red sky from castle Winterfell, the sun setting, and showing the last bit of light the world might ever see.

* * *

The darkness outside castle Winterfell seemed infinite, a void of death encroaching on the last line of defence for the living, only broken by the lights of torches outside, and candles inside. Jon stood at a table, a crude model of Winterfell shaped on top of it, pieces representing the military resources of the living put in place strategically, trebuchets and catapults tucked neatly behind the walls, the wide trench represented by thin wooden dowels assembled in a semi-circle around the front of the castle walls.

"They're nearly here." Jon stated to his council of battle planners, consisting of Brienne of Tarth, the Hound, Jaime Lannister, Jorah Mormont, Ser Davos, and various Northern lords and generals. "There are too many of them to beat in a straight fight, even with our dragon glass and Valyrian steel." The black haired secret Targaryen looked around the room, seeing Brienne, Jaime, and Jorah clutching their Valyrian steel swords in apprehension, Jorah's sword being the Tarly heirloom stolen by Sam and given to him for the coming battle. Jon in turn clutched Longclaw, his own Valyrian steel bastard sword, gifted to him by the late Lord Commander Mormont of the Night's Watch. He thought of Arya, and the Valyrian steel dagger given to her by Bran, keeping the distribution of these mighty White Walker killing weapons in his head. "Our enemy doesn't tire, doesn't stop, doesn't feel."

"So what can we do?" Jaime asked, his bravery in his march North away from King's Landing now seeming to bite him in the rear as he did his best to suppress his shakes of fear. He'd seen but one of these dead men before, and it was unarmed, chained, and killed easily. The thought of an inconceivably large army filled with armed, loose, and ferocious dead men filled the Kingslayer with dread.

"The Night King leads them all. He follows their command." Jon answered. "I killed a White Walker North of the Wall, and that actually killed several dozen of the dead men." He recounted, nodding to Jaime. "We can only hope that killing the Night King will also bring down everything else in his army."

"If that's true, he'll never expose himself." Jaime hissed, looking down at the floor, tapping his foot and biting his lip."

"Yes he will." Came Bran from the corner of the room. All eyes turned towards him. "He will come for me. As he has many times before, with many Three Eyed Ravens."

"Why?" Sam asked, fat belly concealed beneath the thick padded coat used as armour by the Night's Watch. "What does he want?"

"An endless night. Death." Bran replied. "He wants to erase this world, and I am it's memory."

"Well that's what death is, isn't it?" Sam sighed, crossing his arms. "Forgetting." He looked Bran in the eyes, a look of understanding strewn across his face. "If everything we've ever done is forgotten, we may as well have never existed." He chewed the loose skin on the inside of his cheeks. "If I wanted to erase the world, I'd start with you."

"His mark is on me." Bran lifted his sleeve and revealed the frostburned grasp mark on his forearm. "He knows where I am at all times."

"Which is why Bran volunteered to be barricaded in the crypts." Jon added, bringing the attention of the room back to him. "Should we lose this battle, it will take the dead a very long time to break into the crypts, giving the fleeing innocents as much time as possible to get away." He explained. "I will also be asking for a volunteer to join Bran in the crypts. Should the Night King attempt to kill Bran himself, this volunteer will ambush him with a dragon glass dagger."

"I have repeatedly told you that I cannot survive this war." Bran asserted, voice still blank. "Every future I've examined where the sun rises over the world once again does not show me as a survivor." He kept a blank stare at Jon. "Though it is true that the world will not die so long as I live, that doesn't mean the world can't live on without me. The long line of the Three Eyed Raven must end for this world to continue."

"Then I'll make a future where you live!" Theon howled, shuffling through the crowd and looking to Bran, and then over to Jon. "I will be the one who protects Bran in the crypts." Bran took a breath as if about to speak, but paused for a moment, looking up and to the right before exhaling and relaxing back into his chair.

"You're just scared, aren't you, brother?" Yara chimed in from the darkness of the unlit corner she was leaning in. "You want to be down off the wall in the safest part of the keep while the rest of us fight the fairytales, don't you?"

"It has to be me..." Theon muttered, keeping the trained twitching under control. "If we lose this fight, I have to be there for Bran... It has to be me. I took this castle from him before. I must defend him now." Jon looked over to Theon, his heart tingled softly for a moment, and in this moment he finally realized how far Theon has come since betraying the Starks, and a twinge of regret bellowed up in his gut for striking him on Dragonstone.

"Very well." Jon declared. "Theon Greyjoy will be stationed in the crypts."


	18. Chapter 18

It was an unnaturally dark and freezing night. The wind howled across Winterfell, and battered Jon's face with thick snow as he stood atop the castle walls facing North. He would wipe the melting snowflakes off his face occasionally to keep them from freezing to his sensitive skin. To his left was his pale dire wolf Ghost, as warm as can be in his thick, fluffy winter coat, and to his right was Samwell Tarly trying his best to suppress the shivering from the bone piercing cold. The enemy would be upon them soon, and remembering the terror that the white walkers struck in his heart, Sam was tearing up, knowing that they would soon be here.

"Have you told her yet?" Sam asked between his shaky breaths. Jon shook his head.

"No." He replied quickly, wrapping himself tighter in his fur cloak, stepping closer to the dim torch mounted on the battlements.

"Hmm." Sam nodded. "Being careful. Biding your time." He guessed, assuming his friend, the rightful heir to the iron throne had a strategy in mind to deal with the dragon queen. Jon took a slow, shivering breath, but the heavy stomping of feet behind them cut off his response. Their friend Ed came to join them, his long hair and beard keeping some semblance of warmth in his head, though his receding hairline left his forehead unfortunately exposed.

"And now our watch begins." Ed commented, staring North, eyes assaulted by the freezing wind, drying them out.

"Do you think Gilly and little Sam will be okay?" Jon asked, teeth occasionally chattering. Sam nodded.

"Made sure they're accompanied by trustworthy folks." He answered, tears welling up, almost certain he'd never see them again. "They'll get..." Sam paused, shaking in uncertainty. "Wherever they're going... Safely."

"I don't know why you didn't accompany them yourself." Jon sighed, clearly concerned for Sam's safety in the coming battle.

"Everyone seems to forget that I was the first one to kill a white walker!" Sam growled, trying his best to appear as brave as the rest of his comrades, even though he was one fright away from soiling himself. "I've killed Thenns!"

"Thenn." Ed corrected, reminding Sam of his singular crossbow kill. Sam rolled his eyes.

"I've saved Gilly more than once, I stole a considerable amount of books from the Citadel library." Sam grumbled. "Survived the Fist of the First Men... You need me out here."

"Well if that's what it's come to, we really are fucked." Ed crossed his arms, closing his eyes for a few moments to give them a break from the horrible wind. "Samwell Tarly. Slayer of white walkers, lover of ladies. As if we needed any more signs the world was ending."

"Think back to where we started." Sam chimed. "Us, Grenn, Pyp."

"Now it's just us three." Answered Jon, looking down at his feet, remembering all the comrades lost over the years.

"Last man left, burn the rest of us." Ed requested with a sigh, starting a long period of silence where the three would watch wordlessly for any sign of movement in this oppressive darkness.

* * *

Jaime slumped back in the hard wooden chair, his red Lannister armour dim in this dark stone room, face barely illuminated by the fire. He sat alone in this cold stone cell, a luxurious hall according to Northerners, but barely fit to be a prison cell from his experience. The stone fireplace was the only hint of luxury from the Southern man's perspective, keeping his terribly battered and frozen skin warm. The flickering of the dancing flames kept Jaime's mind off the creeping fear that overtook everyone in the castle. These orange lights moving about within the confines of the fireplace, consuming the logs and kindling, their brightness leaving him night blind to everything else in this dark room. After a while of staring into the flames, a few peculiar sights formed within them. Jaime sat at attention as the images in the dancing flames began forming into familiar pictures... It was Cersei. She writhed and howled within the flames, Jaime's mind filling with his sister's screams, and no matter what he did, he could not look away from the fire. As his beloved queen turned to ash and crumbled within the flickering flames, he himself appeared as well, grimacing and churning in pain, falling to his knees. Jaime watched as the image of himself looked to an encroaching figure in the flames, a silver woman standing before him. A voice emanated from the flames, but it was short lived as the door to the chamber opened behind him, the freezing wind stirred the fire, and the images were doused.

"My lady." Jaime greeted, standing up as Brienne entered the warm chamber followed closely by Podrick. The big woman chuckled and shook her head.

"No need to get up." She insisted, keeping her steady trod towards the fire. "We were just looking for some place warm to sleep."

"Sleep?" Jaime laughed. "You really think any of us are going to sleep tonight?" He walked towards a dull table near the wall, lifting a pitcher of wine.

"Do you really think that's wise?" Brienne scoffed as Jaime poured himself a cup of the drink.

"Yes actually." He responded before taking a small sip, face grimacing at the taste. "I recently discovered that a little drink can stop your mind falling into despair."

"You only learned this recently?" Brienne squinted, watching the Lannister plop back into his seat.

"No thanks to my little brother." Jaime sighed, looking back at the two and nodding. "Come. Join me."

"The battle might start at any moment!" She growled, rolling her eyes at the perceived stupidity of the man she had come to admire.

"I'm not telling you to get drunk." Jaime whined, leaning back and taking another sip. "Just take the edge off." Podrick looked at Brienne and shrugged, implying he had a point. She sighed.

"Fine. Half a cup." Brienne agreed, immediately inspiring Podrick to rush over to the table and quickly pour the both of them some wine.

"Oh one moment." Jaime grumbled, getting up and stomping over to a dark corner, grabbing two old chairs by their backs in a single hand and dragging them in front of the fire next to his own chair. "There." He finished before plopping back into his own chair. The duo barely had enough time to be seated themselves before the door opened again.

"Well what do we have here?" Came the Flea Bottom voice of Ser Davos, clambering in out of the cold and rushing towards the fire.

"Care to join us?" Jaime offered, quickly being put down by the onion knight.

"No none for me, thanks. Came here for this." Davos whirled around upon reaching the fire, placing his rear uncomfortably close to the flames, his shivering increasing for a moment before dying down. "Figured I could wait to die freezing my balls off out there, or wait to die nice and warm in here." He explained, looking at the room's newest occupant entering through the whistling door. Tormund the orange haired wildling waltzing in with a smile strewn across his face, eyes on Brienne of Tarth.

"This could be our last night in this world, y'know." The wildling gruffly stated. His smile making the big woman shuffle in her seat.

"Yes and I-uh, am glad you're here." She replied awkwardly, provoking that smile to grow even wider. "Here to... Fight alongside us I mean." Brienne sputtered.

"Drink?" Jaime offered, pointing to the table and the pitcher of wine. Tormund laughed and pulled up a hollow goat's horn off his belt.

"They call you king killer." The wildling nodded at Jaime, popping the lid off his horn. Jaime raised his eyebrow awkwardly.

"I'm sure someone does." Jaime answered, wincing a bit at the informality of this wildling leader.

"They call me Giantsbane." Tormund smiled. "Want to know why?" He asked, cocking his head to the side. No answer could be given before the loud scraping of wooden chair legs dragging across the stone floor hurt everyone's ears, and Tormund slumped down in his chair. "I killed a giant when I was ten." He claimed, leaning forward as if he was telling a story around a campfire North of the Wall to a group of young rookies. "Then I climbed right into bed with his wife." The group started exchanging glances, Podrick holding back laughter. "When she woke up, you know what she did?" Tormund leaned in further, provoking even more snickering from Podrick, and a hidden smile across Jaime's face. Tormund nodded and beckoned the attention of everyone. "Suckled me at her teat. For three months." The only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire. "Thought I was her baby." Podrick started slapping his knee, a big grin plastered on his face. "That's how I got so strong. Giant's milk." He finished before pulling the horn up to his face, chugging the foul wildling ale, little streams of drink trailing down his unkempt beard.


	19. Chapter 19

The Hound sat against the outer wall on the battlements, the tail of his cloak folded up beneath his rear to keep the cold from creeping into his body from the cold stone. The wind howled above him, the outer wall of the battlements keeping the terrible winter storm from tearing at his skin if he was standing. Sandor clutched a large canteen of wine close to himself, keeping the sweet numbing liquid inside from freezing over. He would occasionally allow himself a swig of the drink, the stress of waiting taking a toll even on him. He reminisced on the earlier sight of men trembling in their boots as they awaited the dead, some even collapsing from a broken mind. A small flick of fabric caught his attention from the corner of his eye. The Hound turned to look and there she was. The girl that left him for dead. Arya Stark. He'd been wondering where she slunk off to after their brief exchange in the workshop. Wordlessly, he offered the wine canteen to her, which she accepted, bottoming up and taking a mouthful before screwing the cork back into place. A minute of silence between them passed, the only audible sounds being the noises of the desolate North and it's howling winds.

"You never used to shut up and now you're sitting here like a mute." Sandor commented, slipping his hands into his sleeves to preserve whatever warmth he had left.

"I guess I've changed." Arya answered, the years of travel and murder in her voice. "What are you even doing up here?"

"What does it look like?" Scoffed the Hound. Arya sighed.

"No, I mean what are you doing up _here_? You've joined the Brotherhood Without Banners, then you went North of the Wall with Jon." She clarified. "Why? When was the last time you fought for anyone aside from yourself?" The Hound looked her in the eyes.

"I fought for you, didn't I?" He corrected, conjuring up Arya's memories of the fight in the tavern, and his fight against Brienne of Tarth. Arya curled her lips and looked away, handing back the wine, which Sandor quickly sipped from. Another figure came stomping down the walkway on top of the castle walls towards them. The Hound looked up and saw the eye patch wearing former immortal, Beric Dondarrion strolling towards them. "Oh for fucks sake." Sandor sighed and rolled his eyes.

"My lady." Beric nodded down to Arya. "It's good to see you again. I'm sorry we parted the way we did." He leaned against the edge of the walkway, his hair blowing back from the wind. The Hound looked towards Arya, remembering her old nightly list reciting.

"Wasn't he on your list?" He asked.

"For a little while." She answered. The wind picked up and blew a gale straight into Beric's face, making him wince and tear up.

"Alright." Beric crouched down out of the wind and planted his rear on the freezing stone. "The Lord of Light has brought us together all the same." He began preaching, to which Sandor sighed. "This is his moment. When the light-"

"Don't try to give us a sermon." The Hound scowled. "Because if you do, your fire god is gonna be wondering why he had Thoros bring you back nineteen times only for you to die for good once I chuck you over this fucking wall." He threatened, silencing Beric for a moment before a chuckle escaped the former immortal. He pointed to the wine canteen and beckoned Sandor for a swig, to which he obliged, tossing the leather canteen over. Only after Beric took his fill did the Hound notice that Arya had left his side, and was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

Out of all the bows Arya had experimented with, she had found the one best suited for her small frame. Most of the bows in Winterfell were large, cumbersome, and heavy, with a draw weight easily exceeding one hundred pounds. But this one. She drew the bow, the arrow sliding along it's limb and resting on top of her fist, aligning the sharp dragon glass tip with the bulls eye. It was short, it's limbs curved inwards and recurved outwards. It was nimble, and the draw weight was so low that even a child could use it. Arya let the string slip out of her fingers, letting it launch the arrow through the air, and precisely embedding itself in the bulls eye of the target. She winced a bit as the waxed bowstring slapped her in the forearm. That would have taken skin off had it been a bigger bow. She heard a noise behind her, and her head instinctively swung around, only to see Gendry entering the room, a wooden staff in hand.

"Is that my weapon?" Arya asked, placing the bow down on top of a wooden barrel. Gendry nodded.

"Indeed it is." He smirked, presenting the staff, forged iron bands wrapped and riveted to each end of the staff, smooth, shining black spikes of dragon glass sticking out through drifted holes in the iron bands. Arya grasped the staff, stepping back and whirling it around effortlessly, feigning attacks against dead men and parries against their weapons. It moved as if it were an extension of her own body.

"This will do nicely." Arya grinned, tapping the end of the staff against the cold stone floor, the clunk of the wood echoing through the room. "Though I have been meaning to ask you. What did the Red Woman want with you?" Gendry stumbled and looked down, biting his lip.

"Uhh." He groaned, remembering the priestess of light undressing and fooling him into allowing himself to be restrained. "She uh. Wanted my blood. For some kind of spell."

"Why _your_ blood?" Arya cocked her head. Gendry took a deep breath and sighed.

"I'm Robert Baratheon's bastard." He admitted, turning away and facing the wall for a moment. Arya was silent. "I never knew until she told me. Tied me up, stripped me down, and threw leeches all over me." Arya lowered her brow and let the staff rest against the wall.

"Was that your first time?" She asked, walking past the shuffling blacksmith.

"Oh yeah, I never had leeches put all over me." Gendry joked, much to Arya's discontentment.

"Your first time with a woman, I mean." She clarified. Gendry got flustered and stumbled over his words.

"W-what? No we never did-"

"Where you with other girls before that in King's Landing?" She poached, looking up at the flustered man with a smirk. "Or after?" Gendry stumbled over his words, a grin forming on his face to deal with the awkward line of questioning. "Don't remember?" Arya interrogated.

"Fine, yes. I was." Gendry sighed, dropping his shoulders and scanning the wall to his right.

"One?" She started to circle him. "Two? Twenty?"

"I didn't keep count." He sputtered, squinting at her as if there was something wrong with her. Arya stopped and raised an eyebrow at the obvious lies.

"Yes you did." She nodded at him, a grin sprawled across her face.

"Three." He sighed, provoking Arya to step slowly towards him.

"We're probably going to die soon." She paused, just mere feet away from Gendry. "I want to know what it's like before that happens." The two exchanged glances for a moment.

"Arya, I-" Gendry was cut off by the shorter girl wrapping her arms around him, pulling his head down closer into a sudden kiss, a kiss that continued and continued, the smith's caution thrown to the wind, and as Arya began fumbling her hand around his belt, he assisted, throwing off his coat and twisting as Arya slid the belt off of him. His hands flew towards her, grasping at her warm winter clothes, finding buttons and laces and undoing them. Soon his shirt was discarded unceremoniously on the floor, and Arya stepped on his foot before pushing him back, sending him tumbling down onto a pile of soft burlap sacks containing wool and straw. Arya quickly lifted her shirt up over her head, revealing her scrawny womanly form, and the countless horrid scars that decorated her belly.

"I'm not the Red Woman. Take you own bloody pants off." She chuckled as she slid her legs out of her pants, showing her form as true as the day she was born. Gendry quickly slinked out of his pants as Arya came towards him, falling down against him, and the two shared the warmth of flesh for the first time together. Arya embraced him, pulling him into another kiss as her body slid further down against his own, and soon the two became one.


	20. Chapter 20

"How many battles have we survived between us?" Came Jaime among the crackling of the fire and the bated breaths of his comrades, breaking the silent tension in this dark cell the Starks once called a lounge. "Of what I've heard of Ser Davos Seaworth, he's survived both the Battle of the Blackwater and the Battle of the Bastards"

"I haven't a shred of combat experience." Ser Davos scoffed. "I wasn't close to the fighting. Didn't smell an ounce of shit from the dead combatants until the battle was long over." The old Fleabottom smuggler sighed, remembering his own fear as he tried to talk the terrified Northman into a relative sense of peace as he served him soup. Tormund grunted as if he agreed with Davos' poor assessment of himself.

"Ser Jaime Lannister, fabled hero of the Siege of Pyke." Brienne stated.

"And fabled loser of the Battle of Whispering Wood." Jaime chuckled, getting up and heading over to the table to refill his cup. "Lady Brienne of Tarth. Enacted justice for her king against the usurper Stannis Baratheon, and defeated the Hound in single combat." He nodded approvingly.

"She's not ser?" Tormund interrupted with a cocked brow, leaning forward in his seat, wildling brew still dripping from his copper beard. "You're not a knight!?" He sputtered in shock, looking left and right at the men around him, wondering how such an injustice could be allowed to persist for so long.

"Women can't be knights." Brienne blinked, curling her lips, uncomfortable with the wild man's attention.

"Why not?" He grunted. Brienne turned her head away, making eye contact with Podrick temporarily before he averted his gaze.

"It's tradition." She stated.

"Fuck tradition." He spat back with a casual cock of his head.

"I never really wanted to be a knight." Brienne sighed, spying Podrick take a confused glance towards her, knowing her better than that.

"I ain't no king. But if I were, I'd knight you ten times over." Tormund leaned in, attempting to draw the big woman's eyes, but they did not meet him.

"You don't need a king." Jaime said over a sip of wine. "Any knight can make another knight." He turned towards Brienne, a smirk crossing his face. All eyes were on him for a moment before he placed his cup down and drew his sword Widow's Wail. "I'll prove it." He trotted towards the centre of the room, uninhibited by furniture or firewood. "Kneel, Lady Brienne." She chuckled briefly before turning away. "Do you want to be a knight or not?" Jaime pouted, regaining her attention. "Kneel."

After exchanging brief looks with Jaime, and then Podrick, who faintly nodded, and then back to Jaime, she let out a slightly shaky sigh, her nerves starting to work themselves up as she stood, gently stomping her way over towards him. She soon found herself on her knees, butterflies racing in her stomach, like a long lost dream had been reignited in her heart. Everyone in the room stood and watched as Jaime lowered his sword and rested the flat against her shoulder. "In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave." Jaime lifted the Valyrian steel blade over her head and rested it on her other shoulder. "In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just." The blade rose again and fell gently flat against her shoulder once more. "In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent." The blade rose again, but did not return. "Arise Brienne of Tarth. Knight of the Seven Kingdoms." And with those words, she stood to her feet a new person, a poorly concealed smile across her face. The applause started with Tormund, and then to Podrick, and then to Davos. The three stood in congratulations to the newly appointed knight.

"Ser Brienne of Tarth!" They all praised in unison. "Knight of the Seven Kingdoms!"

* * *

Theon sat with his legs curled under one another on the cold stone floor of the crypts, watching as the heavy wooden door was closed for the last time before the coming battle. The booming thud echoed through the halls of the interred dead and faded into silence. Beating of hammers could barely be heard from the other side as the workers that remained nailed wooden board after wooden board across the door. All that was left for Theon to do for now was place the massive wooden beams into place. As the eunuch ironborn stood to do his heavy lifting, the Three Eyed Raven cleared his throat incessantly, drawing Theon's attention.

"Brandon Stark would thank you for what you're doing." He stated blankly. Theon curled his lips and stepped backwards away from him. A question on his mind for the Three Eyed Raven, but no courage to ask it. Theon replied with a simple bow of the head before turning towards the heavy beams and stretching his back and shoulders... His fingers strained as they wrapped around the corners of the thick block of wood. It was thicker than his hand, and as tall as he was, and it's was carved from the densest of Northern trees. Barely managing to lift the edge of the beam from the floor, Theon slid his foot beneath it, letting it rest on his toes somewhat painfully as he adjusted his grip.

"Grrrough!" He strained, lifting one side of the beam off the stone crypt floor and letting it fall into it's iron slot with a crash. The other side was a lot easier, lifting it to the same elevation was simpler, and sliding it across and allowing it to thump into place. Theon took a short breather, realizing that the second beam would have to be lifted higher. While it wasn't easy, Theon would eventually get it done. Stacking the other beam on top of the first and lifting it from there. A two or three man job done on his own. The question on his mind nagging him more. "But, umm..." Theon stumbled over his words, sliding back against the door and letting himself fall into a seated position. "Would, uhh-" His words were cut off by the echoing boom of the war trumpets, followed by the men on the other side of the door dropping their tools, yelling to one another, and scampering up the stone stairs as the trumpet continued it's loud three blast pattern.

"The dead are here." The Three Eyes Raven sighed, tilting his head back and looking at the ceiling, as if aware of the inaudible scampering panicked feet running around on the upper floors of the castle. Theon's spine grew cold, a deep shiver running slowly up it's length. He grasped the dragon glass dagger on his hip, assuring himself that it was there for when he needed it, and he shut his eyes tightly.


End file.
